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r 


I 


SEA  AND  THE  SAILOR, 


NOTES   ON  FRANCE  AND  ITALY, 


AND  OTHER  LITERARY  REMAINS 


OF 


REV.  WALTER  COLTON. 


ttl  a  Jtbmoir 


BY  REV.  HENRY  T.  CHEEVER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  ISLAND  WORLD  OF  THE  PACIFIC,"  "THE  WHALE 
AND  HIS  CAPTORS,"  ETC. 


"Learning  is  not  like  some  small  bird,  as  the  lark,  that  can  mount  and  sing  and. 
please  himself,  and  nothing  else  :  she  holds  as  well  of  the  hawk,  that  can  soar  aloft, 
and  after  that,  when  she  sees  her  time,  can  stoop  and  seize  upon  her  prey." 

LORD  BACOM. 


NEW  YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO., 

NO.   51   JOHN-STREET. 

CINCINNATI:— H.  W.  DERBY  &  CO. 

1851. 


r 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Fifty-one, 

BY  A.  S.  BARNES  &  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


ST«RIOTTP*B  BT 

KICHARD  C.  VALENTINE. 

Nsw  TOR*. 


F.  C.  GUTIERREZ,  Printer. 
Corner  of  John  and  Dutch  streets. 


PREFACE, 


WHEN  the  fragments  and  manuscripts  of  Mr.  Colton  were 
put  into  the  hands  of  the  Editor,  it  was  supposed  that  an 
entertaining  volume  of  Miscellanies  could  be  made  up,  with 
little  to  do  on  the  compiler's  part  but  to  select,  combine, 
correct,  and  put  to  press.  It  was  soon  found,  however,  that 
none  of  the  manuscripts,  except  portions  of  the  poems,  had 
ever  been  at  all  adjusted,  or  put  into  shape  for  publication. 
All  the  diamonds  in  them  were  diamonds  in  the  rough,  and 
the  gold  was  either  in  quartz,  or  scattered  through  clay  and 
sand. 

The  work  to  be  done,  therefore,  was  that  both  of  the 
miner  and  the  lapidary.  The  shaft  here  opened  has  proved 
a  productive  one,  and  we  think  it  rare  for  the  merely  post 
humous  remains  of  a  literary  Naval  Chaplain  to  yield  so 
rich  a  vein. 

The  part  we  have  called  "  The  Sea  and  the  Sailor"  is 
made  up  mainly  of  two  manuscripts,  without  a  name,  in  the 
shape  of  Sermons,  or  Addresses,  which  it  is  supposed  Mr. 
Colton  was  in  the  habit  of  using,  or  having  recourse  to, 
when  preaching  in  behalf  of  seamen.  Other  appropriate 


8  PREFACE. 


matter  has  been  incorporated  with  them,  and  the  whole 
assorted  into  chapters,  so  as  best  to  answer  the  end  had  in 
view — the  preparation  of  a  volume  uniform  with  Mr.  Col- 
ton's  previous  works. 

The  same  has  been  done  with  the  "  Notes  on  France  and 
Italy,"  which  were  left  by  the  Author  just  as  he  jotted 
them  down  upwards  of  twenty  years  ago.  They  have  been 
here  revised  and  put  into  sections,  and  suitable  insertions 
have  been  made  when  necessary  to  complete  the  integrity 
of  the  text. 

The  Aphorisms,  Laconics,  and  Selected  Editorials  were 
generally  found  complete  of  themselves,  and  have  been 
furnished  with  titles.  It  is  believed  that  the  poems  are 
worthy  of  the  labor  bestowed  on  them,  both  by  their  Au 
thor  and  Editor,  and  that  they  will  constitute  a  pleasing 
variety  in  such  a  volume  of  Miscellanies. 

The  specimens  of  "  Walter  Colton  in  the  Pulpit"  will  be 
valued  by  a  wide  circle  of  the  friends  of  the  Chaplain,  on 
the  ground  of  then*  intrinsic  merit,  as  well  as  that  of  per 
sonal  regard  for  the  preacher.  Our  honest  aim  has  been  to 
do  him  justice,  and  no  other  liberty  has  been  taken  with 
the  manuscripts  than  we  would  like  to  have  used  in  such  a 
case  with  our  own. 

For  the  aid  given  in  furnishing  materials  and  hints  for 
the  Memoir,  by  the  brothers,  class-mates,  and  other  friends 
of  the  deceased,  the  Editor  would  hereby  return  his  grate 
ful  acknowledgments.  And  to  the  bereaved  widow  of  the 


PREFACE.  9 


departed  lie  is  under  special  obligation  for  her  frank  sub 
mission  to  his  discretion,  of  the  prized  letters  and  memo 
rials  of  her  husband. 

If  a  volume  shall  prove  to  have  been  made  satisfactory 
to  her,  and  to  the  wide  range  of  Mr.  Colton's  friends,  and 
worthy  also  of  his  fair  fame  with  the  public  as  a  Chaplain, 
Editor,  Author,  and  Judge,  the  labor  of  its  preparation  will 
be  ever  deemed  by  the  biographer  one  of  the  happiest  of 
his  life,  since  the  end  he  has  constantly  kept  in  view,  of 
mingling  the  true  and  useful  with  the  agreeable,  will  have 
been  attained. 

In  adding  this  work  to  the  great  fund  of  reading  for  the 
Parlor  and  District  School  Library,  the  most  appropriate 
wish  of  the  Editor  and  Publishers  for  themselves  and 
their  readers  would  be,  that  they  might  ever  have  to  do 
with  men  and  writers  as  noble,  generous,  and  genial  as  the 
lamented  WALTER  COLTON. 

H.  T.  C. 

YORK,  JUNE  llth,  1851. 


CONTENTS. 


Bea  anfc  ttye  Sailor. 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  Ocean  in  its  Grandeur  and  Sublimity  —  The  Ocean  as 
a  Theatre  of  Man's  Power  —  Triumphs  of  Sail  and 
Steam—  Its  Effect  on  Character—  The  Traits  of  the 
Sailor  —  His  Generosity  and  Courage  —  The  Tar  in  the 
Constitution  —  On  Deck  and  on  the  Parapet  —  Obe 
dience  to  Orders  —  Insensibility  to  Danger  ...........  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Sailor's  chivalric  Devotion  to  Woman  —  Roughness  and 
Honesty  in  Courtship  —  His  way  of  bearing  unrequited 
Love  —  Prodigality  and  its  Causes  —  Jack  at  the  Bunker- 
Hill  Fair—  His  Price  for  a  Kiss—  Exploits  of  the  Crew 
of  the  North  Carolina  —  Buying  a  Hotel  for  a  Ball  — 
Giving  it  back  to  the  Landlord  —  Superstition  of  the 
Sailor  —  Intolerance  of  the  Shark  and  the  Cat  —  Jack's 
way  of  getting  a  Breeze  —  Belief  in  Ghosts  and  the 
Spirit^  World  —  A  Messmate  from  the  Dead  —  Indigna 
tion  at  Injustice  —  Jack's  Definition  of  a  Nondescript  — 
Battle  between  the  American  Roundabouts  and  the 
French  Dress-coats  ..............................  28 


12  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  m. 

1AM 

Humanity  of  the  Sailor — Emotions  in  View  of  the  Dying 
Dolphin — Jack  and  the  Porcupine — His  Fondness  for 
Excitement — Addictedness  to  the  Cup — Temptations 
offered  him— Government  to  blame — Abolition  of  the 
Whisky  Ration  argued  —  Facts  in  Point  —  Congress 
bound  to  supply  a  Substitute — Teetotalism  the  only 
Safety  for  Army  and  Navy — The  Sailor's  Susceptibil 
ity  to  Religion — Privation  of  Christian  Privileges — 
Error  Corrected — The  Sailor  Remembered  on  the 
Cross — His  Dialect  the  Wing  of  Prayer — Shaking  in 
the  Wind  . ,  41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Navy  Chaplains — A  Reformer  in  Word  and  one  in  Deed — 
The  Capstan  as  a  Pulpit — The  Sailor  in  view  of  Death 
— Sickness  at  Sea  and  on  Shore  compared — Burial  in 
the  Deep  and  under  the  Sod — The  World's  Debt  to 
the  Sailor — Christianity  his  Creditor — His  Life  and 
Character  little  known — His  Nature  in  Ruins — How  to 
be  built  again — Homes  versus  Boarding-houses — The 
Plea  of  Philanthropy — An  Appeal  to  the  Pocket — 
Sources  of  Encouragement  —  Christian  Philanthropy 
mighty 62 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Relation  of  the  Church  to  the  Sailor— The  Poetry  and 
the  Prose  of  his  Lot — His  Privations  and  Hardships — 
His  Wear,  Tear,  and  Fare — Now  reefing  on  the  Yard- 
arm — Now  buffeting  the  Billows — Now  a  pale  Corse 
in  the  deep  Sea— The  Lazaretto  at  Sea  and  the  Epi- 


CONTENTS.  13 


demic  Ashore — Home  unknown  to  the  Sea — Where  to 
find  Solitude — The  Social  Condition  at  Sea  necessarily 
a  Despotism  —  The  Sabbath  practically  unknown  — 
Effect  of  this  Moral  Bereavement 65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Peculiar  Position  of  a  Ship  at  Sea — A  Question  for  Philan 
thropy — Physical  and  Moral  Disabilities  can  be  relieved 
— The  Responsibility  of  Merchants — Inadequate  Med 
ical  Relief  for  Seamen — Public  Opinion  embodied  in 
Law — The  Duty  of  Men  Ashore — How  to  impress  the 
Sailor — Capturing  the  Citadel  of  his  Heart — Hints  for 
a  Sailor's  Preacher — What  we  can  do — Hope  for  the 
Mariner—The  Church  his  Patron  and  Friend— Plea  in 
his  behalf 75 


91  QLale  of  llje 

A  POEM 87 


Notes  0n  France  cm& 

CHAPTER  I. 

Cruising  after  Hibernating — Notes  of  the  last  Bird — Remi 
niscence  of  Maria— Grudge  against  the  Lady  Abbess — 
First  Day  out — Hurry-skurry  in  Cabin  and  Ward-room 
— The  Watch-boy  aloft — We  Anchor  in  Toulon— The 
Sentence  of  Quarantine  —  Practical  Absurdity  of  its 
Regulations — A  Hint  for  Restorationists — The  Arsenal 
of  Toulon — Naval  Discipline  of  the  French — Suburbs 


14  CONTENTS. 


of  the  City — Hyeres — Massillon — A  Nut  for  Socialists 
— Inquisitors  of  the  Custom-house — Overhauling  the 
Dead— A  willing  Farewell  to  Toulon 96 


CHAPTER  H. 

Mysterious  Sailing  in  a  Calm — Speculations  of  the  Tars — 
A  Charmed  Ship — The  course  of  Time  an  Augury  of 
Eternity — The  way  of  the  Wise  Man — Approach  to 
Genoa — The  City  of  Palaces— Blind  Musician  and  his 
Daughter — Effect  upon  the  Crew — Their  noble  Lib 
erality —  Music  of  the  Opera  compared — The  Carla 
Felice  —  Fantastic  Architecture  and  Ornaments  in 
Churches — Protestantism  and  Romanism  compared — 
An  Episode  on  young  Divines — A  sprightly  Bed-fellow 
— Parisian  Fleas  in  the  Waltz— Tour  through  the  Pal 
aces — Glimpses  of  the  Proprietors — Riddles  to  bo 
solved 10 


CHAPTER  III. 

Genoa  and  the  Genoese — A  Reunion  by  Moonlight — The 
Suicide's  Bridge — The  Dome  of  Carignano — The  Altar 
of  Hope — Reluctant  Confessions — Chapel  of  John  the 
Baptist — Canova's  Grief,  Hope,  and  Faith— Raphael's 
St.  Stephen — Paintings  of  Rubens  and  Guido — Chapel 
of  the  Carmelites — Saloon  of  the  Serra  Palace — Paint 
ing  of  Carlo  Dolci — Asylum  for  Mutes — The  Girls  of 
Genoa — The  Magdalen  of  Paul  Veronese — The  Bust 
of  Columbus — The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Genoa — 
Aspirations  of  Hope  for  the  Future 122 


CONTENTS.  15 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PAGE 

Departure  from  Genoa — Drifting  in  a  Calm — A  Theologi 
cal  Frog — Consummation  of  Love — Anchoring  at  Leg 
horn — Morning  and  Evening — Sequel  of  a  happy  Mar 
riage — Mutual  Recognition  —  Night  after  Lobster  — 
Reminiscences  of  Childhood  .  137 


CHAPTER  V. 

City  of  Pisa — Magnificence  of  the  Cathedral — Violations  of 
Taste  pointed  out — Galileo  and  the  Lamp — Beauties 
of  the  Baptistry  —  The  Leaning  Tower — Extent  of 
Human  Credulity— The  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa— Soil 
from  the  Holy  Land — Signs  of  Antiquity  and  Decay — 
The  Ancestry  of  Pisa — Her  ancient  Glory — Causes  of 
Decay— A  Warning  to  the  World  of  the  West— The 
Disasters  of  Disunion  —  Dangers  apprehended  from 
Slavery— Duty  to  Africa 146 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Custom-house  Inquisitors  of  Lucca — We  are  robbed  of  our 
Cigars — We  moralize  like  a  Philosopher — Lucca  from 
the  Mountains — Groups  of  Peasantry — A  joyous  Wed 
ding-party — The  Croakings  of  a  Bachelor — The  good 
Offices  he  fills  to  Society — Virtues  of  the  Lucchese 
Citizens- — Liberty  in  the  Mountains — A  better  Destiny 
for  Man — Future  Liberty,  Fraternity,  and  Peace — A 
Tribute  to  departed  Youth,  Beauty,  and  Genius— Tri 
umphing  in  Death  through  Faith  in  Christ 156 


16  CONTENTS. 


HoMeker's  JJotitl): 

I-AQE 

A  POEM 171 


<&pl)0ri0in0,  Jttajdms,  ana  £aronic0. 

Aphorisms,  &c  ......................................  193 


Hnfinisljea  Satire, 

IN  VERSE  .  .  .217 


Selections  from  (Ebitorials. 

The  True  Freedom  of  the  Press 231 

Rights  of  Private  Judgment 233 

Editorial  Responsibility 234 

Public  Men 236 

Independence  of  Character 237 

Morals  in  Politics 239 

Morals  of  Congress 240 

Profanity  in  the  Senate  242 

Politico-Religious  Action 243 

The  Bankrupt  Law 245 

Revolutions  in  Europe 247 

Removals  from  Office 248 

The  Slave-Trade,  and  Right  of  Search 250 

Domestic  Slave-Traders 254 

United  States  Bank 256 

Resumption  Day 260 

May-Day  in  the  Country 262 

Associations  of  Christmas 264 

Early  Religious  Instruction 267 


CONTENTS.  17 


.      . .  PAOB 

Customs  at  Funerals 271 

Province  of  Sabbath-Schools 273 

The  Force  of  Parental  Education 275 

John  Quincy  Adams 277 

Daniel  Webster 281 

Death  of  General  Harrison 284 

Funeral  of  President  Harrison 287 

Mr.  Clay  and  Mr.  King 291 

Death  of  General  Jackson  . .  293 


Coltan  in  tlje  JJuljrit 

Dignity,  Destiny,  and  Danger  of  the  Soul 299 

The  Sin  of  Neglecting  or  Denying  Christ 320 


Memoir  of  B*t).  toalter  Coiton. 
CHAPTER  I. 

The  Vermont  Family,  and  Sketches  of  Walter  as  a  Boy, 

Youth,  and  Man 337 


CHAPTER  II. 

Life  in  Washington,  and  Entrance  upon  the  Duties  of  a 

Navy  Chaplain  on  Ship  and  Shore 365 


CHAPTER  IE. 

Cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  Life  and  Labors  in  the 
Navy-Yards 376 


18  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PAGE 

Departure  for  the  Pacific,  Life  and  Labors  in  California, 

and  Private  Correspondence 392 


CHAPTER  V. 

Return  from  the  Pacific,  Engagements  with  Publishers, 

Last  Illness  and  Death. .  .  409 


CHAPTER  VI. 

An  Epitome  of  the  Life  and  Character  herein  displayed  ...  418 


THE  SEA  AND  THE  SAILOR, 


CHAPTER   I. 

I  LOVE  the  sailor — his  eventful  life — 

His  generous  spirit — his  contempt  of  danger — 

His  firmness  in  the  gale,  the  wreck,  and  strife : 
And  though  a  wild  and  reckless  ocean-ranger, 

God  grant  he  make  that  port,  when  life  is  o'er, 

Where  storms  are  hushed,  and  billows  break  no  more. 

THE  OCEAN  IN  ITS  GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITY THE  OCEAN  AS  A  THEATRE 

OF  MAN'S  POWER — TRIUMPHS  OF  SAIL  AND  STEAM — ITS  EFFECT  ON  CHAR 
ACTER THE  TRAITS  OF  THE  SAILOR HIS  GENEROSITY  AND   COURAGE 

THE  TAR  IN  THE    CONSTITUTION — ON   DECK    AND  ON  THE  PARAPET — OBE 
DIENCE  TO  ORDERS INSENSIBILITY  TO  DANGER. 

THE  most  fearful  and  impressive  exhibitions  of 
power  known  to  our  globe  belong  to  the  Ocean. 
The  volcano,  with  its  ascending  flame  and  falling 
torrents  of  fire,  and  the  earthquake,  whose  footstep 
is  on  the  ruin  of  cities,  are  circumscribed  in  the 
desolating  range  of  their  visitations.  But  the  ocean, 
when  it  once  rouses  itself  in  its  chainless  strength, 
shakes  a  thousand  shores  with  its  storm  and  thunder. 
Navies  of  oak  and  iron  are  tossed  in  mockery  from  its 
crest,  and  armaments,  manned  by  the  strength  and 
courage  of  millions,  perish  among  its  bubbles. 


20  THE   SEA    AND  THE  SAILOR. 

The  avalanche,  shaken  from  its  glittering  steep,  if 
it  rolls  to  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  melts  away,  and  is 
lost  in  vapor ;  but  if  it  plunge  into  the  embrace  of 
the  ocean,  this  mountain  mass  of  ice  and  hail  is  borne 
about  for  ages  in  tumult  and  terror :  it  is  the  drifting 
monument  of  the  ocean's  dead.  The  tempest  on 
land  is  impeded  by  forests,  and  broken  by  mount 
ains,  but  on  the  plain  of  the  deep  it  rushes  unresist- 
ed ;  and  when  its  strength  is  at  last  spent,  ten  thou 
sand  giant  waves,  which  it  has  called  up,  still  roll  its 
terrors  onward. 

The  mountain  lake  and  the  meadow  stream  are  in 
habited  only  by  the  timid  prey  of  the  angler;  but  the 
ocean  is  the  home  of  the  leviathan — his  ways  are  in 
the  mighty  deep.  The  glittering  pebble,  and  the 
rainbow-tinted  shell,  which  the  returning  tide  has 
left  on  the  shore  as  scarcely  worthy  of  its  care,  and 
the  watery  gem,  which  the  pearl-diver  reaches  at  the 
peril  of  his  life,  are  all  that  man  can  filch  from  the 
treasures  of  the  sea.  The  groves  of  coral  which  wave 
over  its  pavements,  and  the  halls  of  amber  which 
glow  in  its  depths,  are  beyond  his  approaches,  save 
when  he  goes  down  there  to  seek  amid  their  silent 
magnificence  his  burial  monument. 

The  island,  the  continent,  the  shores  of  civilized 
and  savage  realms,  the  capitals  of  kings,  are  worn  by 
time,  washed  away  by  the  wave,  consumed  by  the 
flame,  or  sunk  by  the  earthquake ;  but  the  ocean  still 
remains,  and  still  rolls  on  in  the  greatness  of  its  un- 


SUBLIMITY  OF  THE  OCEAN.  21 

abated  strength.  Over  the  majesty  of  its  form  and 
the  marvels  of  its  might,  time  and  disaster  have  no 
power.  Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  it  rolleth 
now.  The  vast  clouds  of  vapor  which  roll  up  from 
its  bosom  float  away  to  encircle  the  globe :  on  distant 
mountains  and  deserts  they  pour  out  their  watery 
treasures,  which  gather  themselves  again  in  streams 
and  torrents,  to  return,  with  exulting  bound,  to  their 
parent  ocean. 

These  are  the  messengers  which  proclaim  in  every 
land  the  exhaustless  resources  of  the  sea ;  but  it  is 
reserved  for  those  who  go  down  in  ships,  and  who 
do  business  on  the  great  waters,  to  see  the  works  of 
the  Lord  and  his  wonders  in  the  deep.  Let  one  go 
upon  deck  in  the  middle  watch  of  a  still  night,  with 
naught  above  him  but  the  silent  and  solemn  skies, 
and  naught  around  and  beneath  him  but  an  inter 
minable  waste  of  waters,  and  with  the  conviction 
that  there  is  but  a  plank  between  him  and  eternity,  a 
feeling  of  loneliness,  solitude,  and  desertion,  mingled 
with  a  sentiment  of  reverence  for  the  vast,  mysterious, 
and  unknown,  will  come  upon  him  with  a  power,  all 
unknown  before,  and  he  might  stand  for  hours  en 
tranced  in  reverence  and  tears. 

Man  also  has  made  the  ocean  the  theatre  of  Ms 
power.  The  ship  in  which  he  rides  that  element  is 
one  of  the  highest  triumphs  of  his  skill.  At  first  this 
floating  fabric  was  only  a  frail  barque,  slowly  urged 
by  the  laboring  oar.  The  sail  at  length  arose  and 


22  THE  SEA   AND  THE   SAILOR. 

spread  its  wings  to  the  wind.  Still  he  had  no  power 
to  direct  his  course  when  the  lofty  promontory  sunk 
from  sight,  or  the  orbs  above  him  were  lost  in  clouds. 
But  the  secret  of  the  magnet  is  at  length  revealed  to 
him,  and  his  needle  now  settles  with  a  fixedness 
which  love  has  stolen  as  the  symbol  of  its  constancy 
to  the  polar  star. 

Now,  however,  he  can  dispense  even  with  sail,  and 
wind,  and  flowing  wave.  He  constructs  and  propels 
his  vast  engines  of  flame  and  vapor,  and  through  the 
solitude  of  the  sea,  as  over  the  solid  earth,  goes  thun 
dering  on  his  track.  On  the  ocean,  too,  thrones  have 
been  lost  and  won.  On  the  fate  of  Actium  was  sus 
pended  the  empire  of  the  world.  In  the  Gulf  of  Sal- 
amis,  the  pride  of  Persia  found  a  grave;  and  the 
crescent  set  forever  in  the  waters  of  Navarino ;  while 
at  Trafalgar  and  the  Nile,  nations  held  their  breath, 

As  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  slups, 
Like  the  hurricane's  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

But  of  all  the  wonders  appertaining  to  the  ocean, 
the  greatest,  perhaps,  is  its  transforming  power  on 
man.  It  unravels  and  weaves  anew  the  web  of  .his 
moral  and  social  being.  It  invests  him  with  feelings, 
associations,  and  habits,  to  which  he  has  been  an 
entire  stranger.  It  breaks  up  the  sealed  fountains  of 
his  nature,  and  lifts  his  soul  into  features  prominent 


EFFECTS   OF  THE  SEA  ON   CHARACTER.  23 

as  the  cliffs  which  beetle  over  its  surge.  Once  the 
adopted  child  of  the  ocean,  he  can  never  bring  back 
his  entire  sympathies  to  land.  He  will  still  move  in 
his  dreams  over  that  vast  waste  of  waters,  still  bound 
in  exultation  and  triumph  through  its  foaming  bil 
lows.  All  the  other  realities  of  life  will  be  compara 
tively  tame,  and  he  will  sigh  for  his  tossing  element, 
as  the  caged  eagle  for  the  roar  and  arrowy  light  of 
his  mountain  cataracts. 

But  let  us  leave  generalities,  and  look  more  closely 
at  the  distinctive  features  of  character  which  an 
ocean-life  impresses  on  the  sailor.  Among  these, 
generosity  is,  perhaps,  the  most  prominent.  You 
may  take  the  most  gnarled  and  knotted  heart  that 
can  be  found,  one  where  a  kindly  emotion  seems 
never  to  have  existed,  and  send  it  out  on  the  sea,  and 
it  will  soon  begin  to  crack  and  expand. 

This  same  being,  who,  if  he  had  remained  on  land, 
might  have  seen  orphans  starve  around  him  without 
a  pitying  impulse,  and  cheated  the  poor  sexton  out 
of  his  fee  for  tolling  the  bell  at  his  burial,  will,  in  the 
development  of  his  ocean-life  and  character,  be  seen 
dividing  his  last  shilling  with  an  unfortunate  ship 
mate;  and  when  all  is  gone,  show  no  dismay,  or 
distHist  of 

"  The  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  up  aloft, 
And  watches  the  life  of  poor  Jack." 

You  never  see  a  sailor,  when  he  falls  in  with  a 


24  THE  SEA   AND  THE  SAILOB. 

fellow-being  in  distress,  no  matter  in  what  clime  born, 
or  what  may  be  the  color  of  his  skin,  play  the  Levite ; 
he  acts  the  good  Samaritan,  and  as  naturally,  too,  as 
the  blood  rolls  from  his  heart  to  the  extremities  of 
his  frame. 

Nor  does  the  sailor  ever  meet  a  national  foe  in  a 
spirit  of  malice,  or  of  personal  hostility.  He  fights 
not  for  himself,  but  for  his  flag ;  not  for  his  own  honor, 
but  the  honor  of  his  country.  "When  the  enemy  has 
once  struck  his  colors,  he  would  consider  another  shot 
an  act  of  cruelty  and  disgrace.  If  the  enemy's  ship 
be  in  a  sinking  condition,  he  dashes  through  the 
boisterous  waves  to  reach  her,  even  at  the  imminent 
peril  of  being  carried  down  in  the  maelstrom  of  her 
disappearing  hulk. 

He  scorns  stratagem  with  an  enemy,  or  any  ad 
vantage  which  gives  him  the  victory  on  unequal 
terms.  He  would  hardly  consent  to  engage  a  man- 
of-war  in  a  steamer  armed  with  a  Paixhan  gun,  where 
he  might  quietly  take  his  distance  and  riddle  her  at 
such  a  remove  that  her  guns  could  not  reach  him. 
He  would  prefer  throwing  himself  alongside  of  her  in 
a  ship  of  equal  capacity,  and  then  battling  it  out  with 
her  on  what  he  would  consider  fair  and  honorable 
terms.  I  once  asked  an  old  sailor  who  had  been  in 
three  signal  engagements  in  the  last  war  with  Great 
Britain,  and  victorious  in  each,  what  he  thought  of 
the  Torpedo  system  of  blowing  up  an  enemy.  "  Sir," 
said  the  old  sailor,  touching  his  tarpaulin,  "  I  think 


JACK   IN    THE    CONSTITUTION.  25 

it  was  a  sneaking  way  of  doing  the  business.     It  is 
only  the  assassin,  sir,  that  stabs  in  the  dark." 

Courage  is  another  feature  of  character  strongly 
impressed  on  the  sailor  by  his  ocean-life.  He  is  al 
ways  in  peril ;  he  lives  with  but  a  plank  between  him 
and  eternity.  If  the  sea  be  smooth,  and  the  sky  free 
of  clouds  at  the  setting  sun,  still  before  his  midnight 
watch  is  out,  his  spars  may  be  falling  in  fragments 
around  him,  and  the  tempest  roaring  through  his 
shrouds  like  the  blast  of  the  Judgment  trump.  The 
caverns  of  the  sea  are  full  of  sailors,  who  have  sprung 
from  their  hammocks  and  gone  down  before  even  .one 
prayer  could  be  uttered. 

O'er  their  dark  unfathomed  slumbers 
Wakes  no  human  wail  or  knell, 
But  the  mermaid  pours  her  numbers 
Through  her  wild  elegiac  shell. 

Thus  accustomed  to  danger  in  all  the  forms  which 
the  gale,  the  breaker,  the  lightning  of  the  cloud,  and 
the  iron  hail  of  the  enemy  can  present,  the  sailor 
becomes  a  stranger  to  fear.  Peril  is  his  element  as 
much  as  water  is  that  of  the  leviathan  that  floats 
around  him.  He  has,  therefore,  no  new  character  to 
assume,  when  summoned  to  a  work  of  desperate 
daring.  The  same  strong  muscles,  the  same  un 
shrinking  courage,  the  same  indomitable  resolution 
which  are  now  to  be  tasked,  have  been  tested  in 
other  life-suspending  emergencies.  He  rushes  into  the 


THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 


death-struggle  like  the  war-horse,  whose  arching  neck 
is  clothed  with  thunder. 

When  the  Constitution  fell  in  with  the  Guerriere, 
and  it  was  hardly  yet  ascertained  whether  she  was  a 
ship-of-the-line  or  a  frigate,  a  sturdy  sailor  walked 
aft  to  Commodore  Hull,  and  said  in  an  eager,  deter 
mined  tone,  "  Commodore,  if  you  will  lay  us  along 
side,  sir,  we  will  do  our  duty."  "  Clear  the  ship  for 
action,"  cried  the  commodore  ;  and  they  did  do  their 
duty.  They  captured  the  enemy  before  his  recovery 
from  the  astounding  effects  of  their  first  broadside. 
They  broke  the  charm  of  British  invincibility,  and 
filled  the  heart  of  the  nation  with  courage  and  reso 
lution. 

Not  only  on  the  battling  deck,  heaped  with  the 
dying  and  the  dead,  is  the  sailor  firm,  but  when 
thrown  upon  land  he  is  the  last  to  quit  the  unavailing 
battery.  "When  others  had  fled  at  Bladensburg  with 
a  speed  that  might  have  taken  them  to  the  foot  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  if  not  the  shores  of  the  Pacific, 
one  stout  fellow  still  remained  at  his  gun,  and  was 
found  when  the  enemy  was  within  a  few  rods  of  him, 
very  coolly  ramming  home  to  give  him  another  shot. 
He  was  a  regular  Jack  tar,  who  had  very  little  re 
spect  for  the  lessons  of  the  old  distich  : 

"  He  who  fights  and  runs  away, 
May  live  to  fight  another  day." 

When  an  order  reaches  the  ear  of  a  sailor,  he  never 


HIS   INSENSIBILITY   TO   DANGER.  27 

stops  to  inquire  what  may  be  the  consequences  to 
himself  of  carrying  that  order  into  effect.  The  pres 
ervation  of  his  own  limbs  and  life  comes  not  into 
the  account.  The  order  is  all-paramount  with  him, 
and  he  obeys  it  as  if  it  possessed  an  irresistible  power 
over  the  energies  of  his  will.  It  may  be  one  full  of 
the  extremest  peril,  as  is  often  the  case,  still  he  exe 
cutes  it  as  promptly  as  if  danger  were  a  fiction,  and 
death  a  dream. 

An  order  given,  and  he  obeys  of  course, 

Though  'twere  to  run  his  ship  upon  the  rocks, 

Capture  a  squadron  with  a  boat's  crew  force, 
Or  batter  down  the  massive  granite  blocks 

Of  some  huge  fortress  with  a  swivel,  pike, 

Or  aught  whereby  to  throw  a  ball,  or  strike. 

He  never  shrinks,  whatever  may  betide : 
His  cutlass  may  be  shivered  in  his  hand, 

His  last  companion  shot  down  at  his  side, 

Still  he  maintains  his  firm  and  desperate  stand ; 

Bleeding  and  battling,  with  his  colors  fast 

As  nail  can  bind  them  to  his  shattered  mast. 


28  THE   SEA    AND   THE   SAILOR. 


CHAPTER   II. 

SUCH  men  fall  not  unmourned  :  their  winding-sheet 
May  be  the  ocean's  deep,  unresting  wave  ; 

But  o'er  that  grave  will  wandering  winds  repeat 
The  dirge  of  millions  for  the  fallen  brave  ; 

While  each  high  deed  survives  in  safer  trust, 

Than  those  consigned  to  mound  or  marble  bust 

THE  SAILOR'S  OHIVALKIC  DEVOTION  TO  WOMAN — ROUGHNESS  AND  HONESTY 

IN  COURTSHIP HIS  WAY  OF  BEARING  UNREQUITED  LOVE PRODIGALITY 

AND  ITS  CAUSES — JACK  AT  THE  BUNKER-HILL  FAIR — HIS  PRICE  FOR  A 

KISS EXPLOITS  OF  THE  CREW  OF  THE  NORTH  CAROLINA — BUYING  A 

HOTEL  FOR  A  BALL — GIVING  IT  BACK  TO  THE  LANDLORD SUPERSTITION 

OF   THE    SAILOR— INTOLERANCE   OF   THE    SHARK   AND   THE   CAT JACK'S 

WAY  OF  GETTING  A  BREEZE — BELIEF  IN  GHOSTS  AND  THE  SPIRIT  WORLD 

A    MESSMATE    FROM   THE    DEAD — INDIGNATION   AT   INJUSTICE — JACK'S 

DEFINITION     OF    A    NONDESCRIPT BATTLE    BETWEEN    THE    AMERICAN 

ROUNDABOUTS  AND  THE  FRENCH  DRESS-COATS. 

ANOTHER  prominent  feature  in  the  character  of  the 
sailor  is  his  rough,  honest,  heartfelt  esteem  for  the 
fair  sex.  His  devotedness  has  all  the  generosity 
which  characterized  the  highest  noontide  of  chivalry, 
but  without  any  of  the  follies  and  crimes  which  be 
longed  to  that  system  of  self-immolation.  The  ex 
ploits  of  the  knight-errant  have  been  the  very  soul 
of  romance  and  song,  while  the  death-daring  love  of 
poor  Jack  has  been  hymned  only  by  the  billow. 


THE   SAILOR    IN   LOYE.  29 

His  love,  it  is  true,  has  not  that  exquisite  refinement 
which  expresses  itself  in  the  delicate  tints  and  odors 
of  flowers,  but  it  gushes  up  warm  and  fresh  out  of 
his  strong  heart. 

Were  he  to  encounter  you  in  a  nocturnal  serenade, 
with  your  sentimental  eyes  rolled  up  to  the  lattice  of 
your  lady-love,  and  with  guitar  in  hand  singing, 

Love  wakes  and  weeps,  while  Beauty  sleeps ; 

Oh !  for  music's  softest  numbers, 
To  prompt  a  theme,  for  Beauty's  dream, 

Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers  ; — 

were  he  to  meet  you  in  this  interesting  attitude,  he 
would  be  very  likely  to  ask  you  what  you  wanted  to 
disturb  that  fair  sleeper  up  there  for,  as  it  was  not 
her  watch  on  deck,  and  he  would  advise  you  to  call 
upon  her  when  she  should  be  wide  awake,  and  tell 
her  like  an  honest  man,  that  you  loved  her,  and  ask 
her  to  ship  with  you  for  life. 

Were  the  gentle  being  whom  you  thus  tenderly 
accost  in  these  dulcet  strains,  in  a  house  enveloped  in 
flames,  or  amid  the  surge  of  boiling  breakers,  poor 
Jack's  rough  humanity  would  rescue  her  before  your 
exquisite  sentimentality  had  sufficiently  recovered  its 
wits  to  ascertain  whether  any  thing  could  be  done  or 
not ;  for  he  excels  all  men  in  presence  of  mind  and 
promptitude  of  action. 

When  you  offer  yourself  to  a  lady  and  she  refuses 
you,  you  would  be  gratified,  perhaps,  were  she  at 


30  THE  SEA  AND  THE  SAILOR. 

last  to  wed  a  knave  or  fool,  simply  because  she  de 
clined  marrying  you.  Not  so  with  poor  Jack — he 
wishes  her  all  happiness,  and  hopes  to  meet  her  again 
on  the  great  ocean  of  life;  and  does  he  meet  her 
there,  and  in  destitution,  she  shall  not  want  while  a 
shot  is  left  in  the  locker.  Such  is  Jack's  retaliation 
of  unrequited  love.  Were  there  more  of  his  frank 
ness  and  generosity  in  such  matters  generally,  there 
would  be  fewer  unhappy  marriages;  for  who  ever 
heard  of  a  sailor's  troubling  the  courts  for  a  divorce  ? 
If  he  cannot  make  good  weather  on  one  tack,  then 
he  tries  another ;  but  he  never  scuttles  his  ship,  or 
throws  his  mate  overboard.  A  world  without  woman 
in  it  would  be  to  him  like  a  garden  without  a  flower, 
like  a  grove  without  a  bird  to  sing  in  its  branches, 
like  an  evening  sky  without  a  star  to  smile  through 
its  blue  depths. 

Another  prominent  trait  in  the  character  of  the 
sailor  is  his  prodigality.  No  other  being  earns  his 
money  through  such  perils  and  hardships  as  he,  and 
yet  no  one  spends  it  so  freely.  The  wages  of  a  long 
South  Sea  voyage,  or  of  a  three  years'  cruise,  are  spent 
in  a  few  months,  often  in  a  few  weeks.  The  reason 
of  this  is  the  comparatively  few  convivial  occasions 
which  cheer  his  hard  lot,  and  a  conviction  that  with 
him  life  at  longest  is  short. 

His  maxim  is,  live  while  you  live — and  that,  it 
must  be  confessed,  by  no  means  in  the  highest  or 
best  sense :  he  says  to  himself,  make  sure  of  the 


31 


presents  he  dips  of  the  current  as  it  flows.  I  have 
often  tried  to  induce  the  sailor  to  lay  up  his  earn 
ings,  to  put  his  money  into  the  Savings  Bank ;  and 
have  told  him,  by  way  of  inducement,  that  he  would 
find  it  there  with  interest  in  his  old  age.  "Ah!" 
replies  the  sailor,  "  and  suppose  I  should  die  in  the 
mean  time  ?"  This  apprehension  of  an  early  death, 
and  the  novelties  of  the  shore,  make  the  sailor  a  prod 
igal.  He  never,  however,  throws  away  his  money 
in  the  luxuries  of  the  table ;  it  is  generally  in  some 
freak  of  fancy,  some  whim  which  would  never  enter 
the  imagination  of  any  other  being,  nor  his  own  per 
haps,  either,  unless  inflamed  with  the  boozy  wine. 

At  the  Bunker  Hill  Fair  in  Boston,  among  the 
crowds  which  entered  the  magnificent  hall  where  it 
was  held,  there  rolled  in  a  frank  Jack-tar  of  the 
deep.  He  moved  along  in  his  white  pants,  his  blue 
roundabout,  and  new  tarpaulin,  till  one  of  the  ladies, 
and  the  most  beautiful  one  in  the  hall,  arrested  him 
at  her  stand  with  a  solicitation  to  buy  some  of  her 
fancy  articles.  "  No,"  said  the  sailor,  "  I  don't  think 
I  want  any  of  them  'ere  spangles,  but  I  will  give  you 
twenty  dollars  for  a  kiss."  "  Agreed,"  said  the  fair, 
when  the  sailor  saluted  her  on  the  cheek,  and,  draw 
ing  out  his  purse,  handed  her  twenty  dollars.  "  Cheap 
enough  at  that,"  said  Jack,  and  rolled  on.  Those  who 
have  never  studied  the  sailor's  character,  may  im 
pute  to  him  improper  feelings.  Not  so :  he  would 
have  perilled  his  life  to  protect  that  lady  from  indig- 


32  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

nity ;  and  never  was  a  thorough  sea-bred  sailor 
known  to  insult  a  virtuous  woman. 

When  the  crew  of  the  North  Carolina,  on  her  re 
turn  from  the  Mediterranean,  were  discharged  at 
Norfolk,  several  hundreds  of  them  started  in  company 
for  New  York.  They  arrived,  at  length,  in  the  State 
of  Delaware,  which  they  crossed  on  foot,  (for  railroads 
were  then  unknown,)  and,  night  coming  on,  they  cast 
about  for  quarters.  The  keeper  of  the  hotel  in  the 
village  at  which  they  had  arrived,  looking  at  their 
numbers,  and  recollecting  that  his  large  hall  had 
been  engaged  for  a  ball  that  night,  declined  all  at 
tempts  at  accommodating  them.  The  mention  of 
the  ball  struck  the  imagination  of  the  sailors  at  once. 
They  asked  him  what  he  would  take  for  his  hotel ;  he 
stated  the  sum,  which  was  moderate,  as  the  building, 
though  large,  was  old  and  somewhat  decayed.  Instant 
ly  they  raised  the  amount,  handed  it  over  to  the  aston 
ished  keeper,  and  took  possession  of  the  premises. 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  soon  began  to  arrive, 
and  were  received  with  great  cordiality  by  the  sail 
ors.  The  old  hotel  was  for  once  brilliantly  illumina 
ted,  ;md  every  attention  was  paid  to  the  ladies  which 
the  respectful  homage  of  poor  Jack  could  suggest. 
When  the  gentlemen  called  for  their  bills,  they  were 
informed  by  the  sailors  that  no  charge  had  been 
made,  and  no  money  would  be  accepted.  As  the 
company  departed,  three  cheers  were  given  to  the 
ladies.  The  sailors  remained  through  the  following 


PRODIGALITY    AND    SUPERSTITION.  33 

day  and  night  enjoying  their  snug  harbor ;  and,  the 
next  morning,  calling  for  the  landlord  of  whom  they 
had  purchased  the  hotel,  made  him  a  present  of  it, 
on  the  condition  that  he  would  never  again  turn 
away  a  sailor  so  long  as  a  foot  of  unoccupied  room 
remained. 

E"ow,  whoever  heard  of  landsmen  purchasing  a 
hotel  from  a  freak  of  fancy,  and  then  giving  it  back 
again  to  its  previous  owner  ?  It  is  that  sort  of  busi 
ness  operation  which  belongs  only  to  the  sailor ;  but, 
after  all,  it  is  quite  as  safe  and  profitable  as  many  of 
the  speculations  into  which  much  sounder  heads 
sometimes  enter. 

These  are  a  few  illustrations,  out  of  a  hundred  that 
might  be  quoted,  of  the  benevolent,  careless  prodi 
gality  of  the  sailor.  He  purchases  a  hotel  to  secure 
a  night's  lodging,  gives  twenty  dollars  for  the  privi 
lege  of  respectfully  saluting  a  lady,  and  empties  his 
purse  for  a  song !  This  trait  in  his  character  can 
never  be  made  to  undergo  a  radical  change.  It  is 
blended  with  the  very  elements  of  his  moral  and  so 
cial  being.  It  can  never  be  reached  by  the  lessons 
of  a  cool,  calculating  prudence  :  it  is  above  the  influ 
ence  of  time  and  the  force  of  circumstances. 

You  who  censure  this  trait  in  the  sailor,  did  you 
ever  reflect  that  you  often  spend  your  money  for  that 
which  contributes  as  little  to  your  substantial  com 
fort  and  happiness  as  he  does?  You  spend  thou 
sands  for  splendid  furniture  in  your  dwellings  which 

2* 


34:  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

never  yet  started  a  pure  impulse  of  pleasure,  or 
relieved  one  pang  of  sorrow,  but  which  you  are 
vain  enough  to  exhibit,  and  others  weak  enough  to 
envy. 

Superstition  is  another  characteristic  feature  of  the 
sailor.  He  will  never  go  to  sea  on  Friday  if  he  can 
help  it,  and  still  insists  that  the  horse-shoe  be  nailed 
to  the  foremast,  as  a  protection  against  the  visits  of 
the  Evil  One.  How  this  rim  of  rough  iron  came  to 
be  regarded  as  possessing  such  a  potent  charm,  his 
own  philosophy,  not  mine,  must  explain.  The  Evil 
One,  in  his  opinion,  always  tries  to  conceal  his  club- 
foot,  and  this  shoe  would  so  exactly  fit  it,  that  its 
very  sight  repels  the  intruder. 

A  sailor  regards  the  presence  of  a  shark  about  a 
ship  a  most  fatal  omen  to  the  sick  on  board.  The 
highest  exultation  I  ever  witnessed  on  board  a  man- 
of-war,  was  occasioned  by  harpooning  a  shark  that 
was  hanging  about  us  while  a  favorite  sailor  was 
sick ;  though  I  rather  doubt  if  it  was  the  harpoon 
that  saved  the  sailor's  life  ;  and  yet  it  may  have  had 
as  much  agency  in  it  as  the  doctor's  pills. 

A  sailor  will  never  tolerate  in  his  ship  a  member 
of  the  feline  species,  especially  if  she  has  a  dark  com 
plexion.  We  took  on  board  at  Gibraltar  a  large, 
beautiful  black  cat ;  we  were  bound  to  Mahon,  and, 
as  it  happened,  encountered  a  tedious  succession  of 
light  head-winds  and  dead  calms.  The  sailors  at  last 
began  t<>  look  at  our  new-comer  as  a  sort  of  Jonas  on 


A  MESSMATE  FROM  THE  DEAD.          35 

board.  The  next  morning  the  black  cat  was  missing, 
and  suspicions  fell  very  justly  on  an  old  sailor,  who 
had  been  heard  to  threaten  her  life.  I  asked  this  old 
sailor  what  could  induce  him  to  commit  such  an  act 
of  cruelty.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  we  have  been  boxing 
about  here  for  two  weeks  without  making  any  head 
way,  and  I  determined  at  last  to  put  that  black  cat 
out  of  the  way.  I  didn't  murder  her,  sir ;  I  tied  a 
shot  to  her  and  she  sunk  without  a  scream ;  and  now 
you  see,  sir,  we  have  got  a  fine  breeze." 

The  sailor  is  also  a  profound  believer  in  ghosts : 
one  of  these  nocturnal  visitants  was  supposed,  at  the 
time  to  which  I  refer,  to  frequent  our  ship.  It  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  the  crew  could  be  in 
duced  to  turn  in  quietly  at  night.  You  might  have 
seen  the  most  athletic,  stout-hearted  sailor  on  board, 
when  called  to  take  his  night-watch  aloft,  glancing 
at  the  yards  and  tackling  of  the  ship  for  the  phantom ; 
and  square  off,  muttering  his  challenge  to  it  to  come 
in  some  honest  shape,  and  not  be  skipping  about 
there  on  the  sk}^-sails  and  moon-raker,  half  the  time  . 
in  sight,  and  half  the  time  lost  in  shadow.  It  was  a 
long  time,  in  the  opinion  of  the  crew,  before  this 
phantom  left  the  ship ;  and  no  philosophy  that  was 
preached  in  sermons  or  otherwise  could  shake  their 
confidence  in  its  reality. 

Now  and  then  an  occurrence  takes  place  on  board 
ship  which  seems  to  invest  these  mysterious  phe 
nomena  with  some  reasonableness  and  force.  A  sail- 


36  THE   SEA   AND   THE   8ATLOK. 

or  in  one  of  our  ships-of-the-line  had  died  of  a  slow, 
lingering  disease.  He  was  laid  out  on  a  plank,  as  is 
customary,  and  after  some  fifteen  or  twenty  hours, 
his  messmates  were  called  to  wrap  him  for  burial, 
when  he  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  white  as  his  linen. 
With  eyes  glassed  in  death,  he  told  the  crew,  as  they 
were  standing  in  breathless  awe  around  him,  that  he 
had  been  sent  back  into  this  world  to  warn  them,  and 
that  unless  they  repented  of  their  sins,  and  reformed 
their  lives,  they  would  perish  forever.  His  language, 
though  a  common  seaman,  was  select  and  forcible, 
and  free  of  the  technicalities  which  make  up  the 
dialect  of  the  sailor. 

When  he  had  finished  his  admonitory  appeal  to 
the  crew,  which  was  uttered  with  indescribable  so 
lemnity,  he  sent  for  the  commander-in-chief.  This 
officer  came  to  him  :  "  Commodore,"  said  he,  "  a  few 
hours  ago  it  was  for  you  to  command,  and  for  me  to 
'obey ;  it  is  now  for  me  to  speak,  and  for  you  to  listen. 
Commodore,  you  are  tyrannical  to  your  crew,  and 
profane  to  your  God.  You  must  repent  of  your  sins 
and  cast  yourself  on  the  compassion  of  Christ,  or  you 
are  undone.  My  mission  is  now  accomplished,  and 
I  must  return."  He  then  sunk  slowly  back  again  on 
his  death-pillow.  The  body  was  kept  for  a  week  or 
BO,  and  then  consigned  to  the  deep. 

Such  was  the  appalling  impression  produced  by 
this  occurrence,  that  for  several  days  scarce  a  loud 
word  was  heard  among  the  crew,  and  the  commander- 


in-chief  carried  the  impression  with  him  to  the  grave. 
I  had  this  narrative  from  the  surgeon  of  the  ship, 
who  was  present  and  witnessed  the  whole. 

If  you  ask  me  whether  I  believe  this  sailor  had 
really  departed  to  the  world  of  spirits  and  reappeared 
among  us  again,  I  answer  that  I  have  stated  the  facts 
of  the  case  as  related  to  me  by  an  eye-witness,  and  I 
leave  you  to  draw  your  own  inferences.  I  know 
nothing  in  the  Bible  which  discredits  a  belief  in  the 
return  of  departed  spirits.  One  shadowy  visitant 
may  be  sent  to  startle  the  sinner  from  his  fatal  slum 
bers  ;  and  others  may  be  commissioned  to  cheer  the 
weak,  to  sustain  the  dying : 

Hark !  they  whisper :  angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away. 

The  uncomplaining  submission  of  the  sailor  to  just 
punishment,  and  his  indignation  at  unmerited  chastise 
ment  and  rebuke,  form  another  prominent  trait  in  his 
character.  He  seldom  seeks,  when  guilty,  to  escape 
the  penalty  through  prevarication  and  deceit.  He 
has  no  lawyer  to  tell  him  to  plead  not  guilty,  and 
to  extricate  him  through  some  technical  informality 
in  the  proceedings.  He  acknowledges  his  offence, 
and  submits  to  the  punishment  as  an  admonition  to 
himself  and  others  too.  But  he  resents,  with  the  full 
force  of  his  moral  nature,  even  the  imputation  of 
crime  when  innocent. 

When  Small  confessed  his  participation  in  the  pro- 


38  THE   SEA    AND   THE   SAILOR. 

jected  mutiny  on  board  the  Somers,  not  the  shadow 
of  a  shade  of  doubt  respecting  his  guilt  rested  on  my 
mind.  Had  he  been  innocent,  the  very  keel  of  that 
ship  would  have  trembled  with  his  remonstrance.  A 
sailor  tamely  submitting  to  death  in  expiation  of  a 
crime  he  never  committed  or  purposed ! — such  a  thing 
is  not  known  in  all  the  annals  of  the  ocean. 

He  will  not  silently  submit  even  to  an  opprobrious 
epithet  on  board  a  man-of-war.  One  of  our  officers 
in  charge  of  the  deck  called  a  sailor  a  nondescript. 
He  had  scolded  him  for  some  supposed  neglect  of 
duty,  and  then  said,  "  Go  forward !  you  are  such  a 
perfect  nondescript,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
you."  Forward  the  sailor  went,  muttering  to  himself, 
"  Nondescript — what  does  that  mean  ?  Here,  Larkin, 
can  you  tell  me  what  nondescript  means  ?"  "  Why, 
what  do  you  want  to  know  what  nondescript  means 
for  ?"  "  Why,  the  officer  of  the  deck  called  me  a 
nondescript,  and  it  means  something  bad,  I  know,  for 
he  was  angry."  "  Well,  I  don't  know  what  it  means," 
said  Larkin :  "  send  for  Wilkins,  he  can  tell."  Now, 
Wilkins  was  a  sort  of  ship's  dictionary ;  and,  though 
ignorant  as  any  on  board,  he  had  a  reason  for  every 
thing,  and  a  definition  besides.  So  Wilkins  came  : 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  nondescript  ?"  inquired  the 
aggrieved  sailor.  "  Nondescript,"  said  Wilkins,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "  nondescript  means  one  who  gets 
into  heaven  without  being  regularly  entered  on  the 
books."  "Is  that  all  it  means?"  said  the  sailor: 


THE    POLLIWOG    VS.    THE    ROUNDABOUT.  30 

"  well,  well,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  there  any  way, 
poor  sinner  as  I  am !"  If  there  was  more  of  that 
sailor's  spirit  ashore,  there  would  be  less  wrangling 
on  doctrinal  points. 

A  prejudice  against  all  innovations  is  another  trait 
in  the  character  of  the  sailor.  Holding  to  ancient 
usage  with  the  fidelity  of  a  Turk,  a  habit  conse 
crated  by  time  has  with  him  a  sacredness  which  he 
will  not  lightly  surrender.  He  is  attached  to  a  cus 
tom  because  it  is  a  custom, 

And  scorns  to  give  aught  other  reason  why. 

ISTo  regular  sea-bred  sailor  will  ever  go  on  board 
one  of  our  steam  frigates,  except  by  compulsion. 
He  detests  steam  even  in  a  dead  calm,  though  he 
must  lie  there 

"  As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

He  thinks  it  fit  to  be  used  only  in  crawling  off  a  lee 
shore ;  and  even  then,  sooner  than  resort  to  it,  he 
would  risk  a  thump  or  two  with  the  breakers.  He 
likes  an  open  sea,  long  sweeping  waves,  an  ample 
spread  of  canvas,  a  stiff,  steady  breeze,  and  the  foam 
rolling  away  as  if  in  terror  from  his  careering  keel. 

Some  French  sailors  once  went  ashore  at  Mahon 
in  dress-coats.  They  were  encountered  there  by 
American  sailors  in  their  roundabouts,  and  a  battle 
ensued,  in  which  some  bones  were  broken.  When 
the  matter  was  inquired  into  bjr  the  proper  author!- 


40  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

ties,  the  reason  assigned  by  our  tars  for  their  terrible 
onslaught  upon  the  French  boys  was,  that  they  wore 
coats  with  tails  to  them.  "  I  don't  care,"  said  Jack, 
"  about  the  tails  on  their  coats,  if  the  polliwogs 
didn't  call  themselves  sailors ;  they  disgrace  the  pro 
fession,  sir."  A  sailor,  fickle  and  impulsive  as  he 
may  be  on  other  subjects,  is  firm  in  his  prejudices. 

He  is  a  child  of  mere  impulse  and  passion, 
Whose  prejudice  oft  deals  his  hottest  blows, 

And  fickle  as  the  most  ephemeral  fashion, 
Save  in  the  cut  and  color  of  his  clothes ; 

And  in  a  set  of  phrases,  which  on  land 

The  wisest  head  could  never  understand. 


HUMANITY   OF   THE   SAILOR.  41 


CHAPTER    III. 

HE  thinks  his  dialect  the  very  best 
That  ever  flowed  from  any  human  lip, 

And  whether  in  his  prayers,  or  at  a  jest, 
Uses  the  terms  for  managing  a  ship ; 

And  even  in  death  would  order  up  the  helm, 

In  hope  to  clear  the  "  undiscovered  realm." 

HUMANITY  OF  THE  SAILOR — EMOTIONS  IN  VIEW  OF  THE    DYING  DOLPHIN 

JACK  AND  THE  PORCUPINE HIS  FONDNESS  FOR  EXCITEMENT ADDICTED- 
NESS  TO  THE  CUP TEMPTATIONS  OFFERED  HIM GOVERNMENT  TO  BLAME 

ABOLITION  OF  THE  WHISKY    RATION    ARGUED FACTS    IN  POINT CON 
GRESS  BOUND  TO  SUPPLY  A  SUBSTITUTE TEETOTALISM  THE  ONLY  SAFETY 

FOR  ARMY  AND  NAVY THE  SAILOR'S  SUSCEPTIBILITY  TO  RELIGION PRI 
VATION    OF    CHRISTIAN    PRIVILEGES ERROR    CORRECTED THE    SAILOR 

REMEMBERED    ON   THE    CROSS HIS    DIALECT   THE    WING   OF    PRAYER 

SHAKING  IN  THE  WIND. 

ANOTHER  feature  in  the  character  of  the  sailor  is 
his  humanity  to  dumb  animals.  Though  he  may 
knock  down  a  French  sailor  for  wearing  a  coat  with 
a  tail  to  it,  he  will  never  turn  out  a  poor  old  faithful 
horse  on  a  public  common  to  die.  He  leaves  such 
accursed  inhumanity  to  those  who  surfeit  the  guest, 
and  starve  his  steed. 

"When  pushed  hard  for  fresh  provisions  on  a  cruise 
in  the  West  Indies,  we  took  our  lines  and  angled  for 
the  dolphin.  One  was  at  last  hooked  and  brought  on 
board.  As  this  most  beautiful  fish  of  the  ocean  was 


42  THE  SEA   AND  THE  SAILOR. 

dying,  I  observed  an  old  sailor  leaning  over  it  and 
watching  its  spasms.  As  its  complexion  trembled 
through  the  successive  colors  of  the  rainbow  to  the 
last  one,  when  death  set  its  seal,  a  big  tear  floated  in 
the  eye  of  the  old  tar,  while  his  lips  half  unconsciously 
murmured,  "  That's  hard — that's  hard."  He  believes 
with  Shakspeare, 

"  The  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  suffering  feels  a  pang 
As  great  as  when  a  giant  dies." 

We  had  on  board  the  Constellation  a  lamb,  which 
became  quite  a  pet  with  our  crew,  but  from  a  fracture 
of  one  of  its  limbs  by  the  falling  of  a  belaying-pin, 
it  became  necessary  to  kill  it ;  but  not  a  sailor  who 
had  played  with  it  would  touch  a  morsel  of  its  meat. 
"  Eat  Tommy !"  said  Jack ;  "  I  would  as  soon  eat  my 
own  child." 

We  had  also  many  pets  on  board,  among  them  the 
greyhound,  the  gazelle,  the  falcon,  and  that  most  en- 
cleared  of  all  pets,  the  carrier  pigeon ;  but  the  favorite 
with  the  sailors  was  the  fretful  porcupine.  They  re 
spected  him,  for  they  said  he  could  take  care  of  him 
self;  and  indeed  he  did,  as  there  was  scarce  a  nook 
or  corner  of  the  ship  where  the  rogue  did  not  commit 
his  depredations.  Our  Newfoundland  dog  was  trail  KM! 
by  the  sailors  to  take  his  station  regularly  when  all 
hands  were  called,  and  he  always  led  off  when  the 
main-tack  was  manned.  Our  sailors  could  manage 


LOVE  OF  EXCITEMENT.  43 

every  thing  but  the  monkey ;  they  could  never  make 
any  thing  out  of  that  mischievous  caricature  of 
man! 

Another  feature  of  character  impressed  on  the 
sailor  by  his  ocean  life,  is  a  passionate  fondness  for 
excitement.  The  great  element  on  which  he  moves 
is  never  at  rest.  If  it  be  quiet  at  one  point,  storms 
are  howling  and  breakers  lifting  their  voices  in  thun 
der  at  another.  Here,  an  iceberg,  in  mountain  ma 
jesty,  tumbles  on  its  terrific  way  ;  there,  a  roaring 
waterspout  seems  as  if  emptying  another  ocean  from 
the  clouds ;  and  yonder,  the  vast  maelstrom  draws 
whole  navies  down  its  whirling  centre.  Reared 
amid  these  stirring  wpnders.  the  sailor  becomes  im 
patient  of  repose. 

It  is  his  life's  first  pulse  to  be  in  motion, 

Roaming  about,  he  scarce  knows  where  or  why ; 

He  looks  upon  the  dim  and  shadowy  ocean 
As  his  home,  abhors  the  land,  and  e'en  the  sky, 

Boundless  and  beautiful,  has  naught  to  please, 

Except  some  clouds  which  promise  him  a  breeze. 

He  looks  up  to  the  sky  to  watch  that  cloud, 
As  it  displays  its  faint  and  fleeting  form ; 

Then  o'er  the  calm  begins  to  mutter  loud, 
And  vows  he  would  exchange  it  for  a  storm, 

Tornado,  any  thing,  to  put  a  close 

To  this  most  dead,  monotonous  repose. 

This  love  of  excitement  in  the  sailor  leads  him  to 
the  CUP — his  flattering,  false  friend  ;  his  companion 


44  TUE    SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

in  moments  of  conviviality ;  his  refuge  in  hours  of 
gloom.  He  sees  not  the  serpent  which  lurks  in  the 
fatal  bowl,  and  wakes  up  to  his  peril  only  in  the 
death-horrors  inflicted  by  its  fang.  And  yet  the 
Government,  the  kind,  paternal  Government,  puts 
this  poisoned  chalice  to  his  lips  !  If  you  would  re 
form  him,  strike  the  fire-whisky  out  of  his  ration. 
Let  the  moral  power  of  your  disapprobation  be  felt 
in  your  acts,  not  proclaimed  in  your  theories.  But, 
instead  of  this,  you  go  to  him  with  a  cup  of  whisky 
in  one  hand,  and  a  temperance  tract  in  the  other ! 
The  wonder  is,  that  he  ever  dashes  the  whisky  aside, 
and  listens  to  the  total  abstinent  lessons  of  the  tract. 
And  yet,  not  one-third  of  the  sailors  afloat  in  our 
national  ships  touch  the  whisky  ration  thus  pre 
sented  to  their  lips  by  the  Government. 

If  Congress  would  forego  President-making  for  the 
people,  and  give  more  time  to  those  whose  lives  are 
at  issue  upon  their  legislative  acts,  they  would  better 
consult  their  own  duty  and  the  interests  of  human 
ity.  Nor  can  any  man  make  a  better  use  of  the 
influence  of  his  name  than  by  appending  it  to  a 
memorial  to  Congress  to  abolish  at  once  this  whisky 
ration  in  the  Navy.  There  was  a  time  when  most 
of  those  connected  with  the  Navy  were  in  favor  of 
the  whisky  ration.  It  was  regarded  as  an  element 
which  the  habits  of  the  sailor,  if  not  the  hardships  of 
his  condition,  had  rendered  expedient.  We  were 
once  of  this  opinion  ourselves;  tut  experience,  that 


THE   NAVY    WHISKY   EATION.  45 

great  and  final  test  of  all  things,  has  produced  a  dif 
ferent  conviction. 

It  has  been  shown,  with  a  conclusiveness  that  ad 
mits  of  no  cavil,  that  the  hardest  sea  service  is  best 
performed  by  those  who  use  no  alcoholic  drinks. 
We  adduce,  in  evidence  of  this,  the  health  and 
strength  found  in  our  whaling  vessels,  where  no 
spirituous  liquors  are  used,  and  where  the  hardships 
are  unequalled  in  any  other  branch  of  our  marine. 
We  have,  also,  hundreds  of  merchantmen  afloat, 
where  the  utmost  enterprise  and  vigor  prevail,  and 
where  no  artificial  stimulants  are  used. 

But  our  evidence  stops  not  here  :  we  have  men-of- 
war  in  service,  where,  among  a  large  proportion  of 
the  crews,  the  whisky  ration  has  been  voluntarily 
commuted  for  other  articles,  and  where  still  the  high 
est  degree  of  alacrity  and  strength  prevails.  And, 
further,  we  have  one  frigate,  at  least,  afloat,  where, 
as  we  are  informed,  every  soul  on  board,  from  the 
commander  down  to  the  loblolly-boy,  is  a  teetotaller ; 
and  where  order,  discipline,  and  energy  are  unsur 
passed.  With  these  facts  before  us — facts  founded  in 
experience — we  are  prepared  to  say  that  the  whisky 
ration  in  the  Navy  can  well  be  dispensed  with. 

The  law,  as  it  now  stands,  makes  it  a  part  of  the 
sailor's  ration  ;  and  no  commander,  not  the  Secretary 
of  the  Navy  himself,  can  withhold  it.  A  large  pro 
portion  of  the  crews  of  our  public  ships  voluntarily 
relinquish  it.  A  few,  from  the  force  of  habit,  or  ig- 


46  THE    SEA   AND  THE   SAILOR. 

norance  of  the  benefits  of  giving  it  up,  continue  its 
use.  This  comparatively  small  number  are  called  011 
deck  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  where,  in  the  presence  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  crew,  the  whisky  is  dealt  out  to 
them,  and  where  their  faces  are  lighted  up  for  the 
moment  with  the  delirious  excitement  imparted. 

Now  what  must  be  the  eifect  of  such  an  example  ? 
"What  its  effect  on  the  youth  of  the  crew,  and  on  that 
sailor  whose  abstinent  purpose  sometimes  wavers  ? 
Temptations  out  of  sight  lose  half  their  power.  It  is 
our  eyes  that  give  the  forbidden  fruit  its  charm. 
And  yet  no  commander,  under  o^ir  present  law,  can 
refuse  to  present  this  pernicious,  infectious  example 
to  his  crew  every  day.  He  cannot  have  this  in 
sidious  poison  administered  in  secret ;  he  has  no 
right  to  order  the  men  down  into  the  hold  for  the 
purpose ;  nor  can  he  cast  upon  the  indulgence  any 
stigma  or  rebuke.  It  is  honored  and  protected  by 
law,  and  he  is  obliged  to  respect  that  law. 

What,  then,  in  view  of  all  these  facts,  is  the  duty 
of  that  body  which  made  this  law,  but  to  repeal  it  ? 
Can  any  man  face  this  evidence  and  protect  it  ?  Can 
he  look  at  the  evils  which  it  inflicts,  and  plead  for  it  ? 
Can  he  stand  over  the  ruins  of  soul,  mind,  and  body 
which  it  entails,  and  defend  it  ?  No,  no ;  not  for  one 
moment.  It  ought  to  be  abolished  at  once,  utterly 
and  forever.  It  ought  never  to  have  been  incorpo 
rated  with  the  provisions  of  the  service.  But  igno 
rance  of  its  destructive  nature  allowed  its  enact  n  KM  it. 


WHISKY   IS  THE  AKMY,  47 

That  ignorance,  however,  now  na  longer  exists,  and 
there  is  no  apology  left  for  its  continuance.  Let 
Congress,  then,  strike  it  from  our  Naval  statutes,  and 
substitute  for  its  poison  what  will  promote  the  com 
fort,  health,  and  strength  of  our  seamen. 

Most  of  the  evils,  also,  which  exist  in  the  Army, 
result  from  the  use  of  ardent  spirits.  The  gill  per 
diem  which  Government  allows  to  each  soldier  would 
not  of  itself  produce  these  ruinous  effects ;  but  this 
allowance  only  creates  a  craving  appetite  for  more, 
and  the  means  of  indulging  it  to  a  fatal  excess  is 
presented  by  the  sutler.  Thus  hundreds  who  en 
tered  the  Army  with  habits  of  temperance  are  led 
on,  step  by  step,  in  this  ruinous  course,  till  they  sink 
into  an  untimely  grave,  or  are  cast  into  hospitals,  the 
mere  relics  of  what  they  once  wrere  ;  while  hundreds 
more  drag  out  a  miserable  existence  between  the 
tempting  cup  and  the  pangs  of  a  relentless  chastise 
ment. 

Such  were  not  the  men  who  achieved  our  independ 
ence  ;  nor  are  they  those  upon  whom  this  country 
could  place  much  reliance  in  the  hour  of  peril.  They 
are  a  mere  apology  for  a  defence,  and,  so  far  from 
being  fitted  for  active  service,  they  could  scarcely 
make  even  a  reeling  demonstration. 

Now  all  this  wretchedness,  misery,  and  death  have 
not  the  slightest  necessity  to  plead  as  an  apology. 
It  is  in  the  power  of  Congress  to  banish  intoxicating 
liquors  from  the  camp  ;  and  the  voluntary  surrender 


48  THE   SKA    AND   THE   SAILOR. 

of  their  allowance  by  the  garrisons  at  Fort  M'llenry 
and  Sackett's  Harbor,  show  that  no  great  violence 
would  be  done  to  the  feelings  of  the  more  reputable 
part  of  our  soldiers  if  the  sutler's  license  to  deal  in 
spirits  should  be  withdrawn,  and  the  whisky  ration 
be  commuted  for  articles  that  cannot  injure  the  health 
or  morals  of  the  soldier. 

It  is  the  opinion  of  General  Macomb  (than  whom 
no  man  in  the  country  has  a  better  opportunity  of 
knowing)  that  ardent  spirits  can  be  dispensed  with  in 
the  Army,  and  that  incalculable  good  would  flow  to 
the  troops  from  a  vigorous  prosecution  of  measures 
calculated  to  secure  this  object. 

But  another  feature  in  the  character  of  the  sailor, 
whom  I  may  seem  for  a  moment  to  have  forgotten, 
is  his  susceptibility  to  religious  impressions.  A  great 
affecting  truth  connected  with  the  destiny  of  the  hu 
man  soul,  finds  a  ready  access  to  his  feelings.  It 
has  no  prejudices  to  break  down,  no  skeptical  doubts 
to  overthrow :  it  is  unresisted  by  his  intellect ;  it 
falls  at  once,  with  its  full  force,  on  his  heart. 

It  is  well  for  him  that  it  is  so :  if  truth  reached  his 
heart  by  the  same  slow  degrees  that  it  generally  does 
that  of  other  men  ;  if  it  had  first  to  be  filtered  through 
the  alembic  of  his  intellect,  it  would  rarely,  if  ever, 
accomplish  the  errand  upon  which  it  was  sent.  He 
has  incomparably  less  time  and  fewer  opportunities 
than  other  men.  His  home  is  on  the  ocean ;  he  is 
rarely  in  a  vessel  that  has  a  religious  commander ; 


JACK   AND   RELIGION.  49 

and  still  more  rarely  in  a  ship  where  there  is  one 
whose  duty  it  is  to  instruct  him  in  the  great  truths  of 
Revelation. 

He  starts  on  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  or  into 
the  South  Seas,  or  to  the  East  Indies,  and  during  his 
long  absence  never,  perhaps,  once  hears  a  chapter 
read  from  the  Bible,  or  a  prayer  offered  to  his  God. 
He  returns,  and  is  on  shore  for  a  few  weeks  ;  he  has 
no  sacred  and  endeared  home  of  his  own  to  go  to ; 
and  he  seeks  those  scenes  of  amusement,  excitement, 
and  conviviality  which  are  congenial  to  his  roving 
habits,  and  for  which  his  long  deprivations  have' 
given  him  a  keen  zest.  Before  the  land  has  become 
stable  around  him,  and  the  buildings  have  ceased  to 
rock  as  the  masts  of  his  vessel,  his  money  has  been 
spent,  and  he  is  off'  to  sea  again. 

And  now,  is  it  strange  that  you  cannot  catch  him 
in  this  whirl  of  enjoyment,  and  make  a  sober  Chris 
tian  of  him?  Catch  a  wild  Mohawk,  and  make  a 
Cincinnatus  of  him  as  wTell !  There  are  thousands  who 
live  ashore  in  the  midst  of  a  praying  community, 
have  faithful  evangelical  preachings  on  the  Sabbath, 
two  or  three  lectures  a  week,  precept  upon  precept, 
line  upon  line,  here  a  little  and  there  a  little — and, 
after  all,  exhibit  but  faint  traces  of  piety  ;  and  then 
affect  to  wonder  that  poor  Jack,  thrown  ashore  for  a 
few  weeks  among  our  grog-shops  and  stews,  does  not 
at  once  become  religious  ! 

The  wonder  is,  that  he  becomes  religious  at  all : 
3 


50  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOK. 

indeed,  he  never  would,  did  he  not  possess  ten  times 
the  susceptibility  which  some  of  those  evince  who 
affect  to  wonder  at  him.  Truth  has  to  do  its  work 
with  him  at  once :  its  sacred  image  must  strike  his 
sonl  with  the  suddenness  and  fidelity  of  the  daguerre 
otype  impression. 

It  is  no  small  obstacle  to-  the  success  of  religious 
efforts  with  sailors,  that  they  are  generally  considered 
as  the  least  likely  of  any  class  in  the  community  to  be 
brought  under  the  saving  influences  of  grace ;  and 
the  clergyman  who  attempts  it,  is  regarded  by  many 
as  leading  a  forlorn  hope.  When  I  entered  the  Navy, 
a  staid  clergyman  of  New  England  asked  me,  "  Is  it 
possible  that  you  are  going  to  throw  away  your  tal 
ents  and  education  on  sailors  ?" 

I  said  to  him  what  I  would  say  to  all  such  inqui 
rers  now,  the  sailor  was  remembered  on  the  Cross, 
and  if  worthy  of  the  dying  agonies  of  the  Son  of 
God,  he  certainly  is  of  the  efforts  of  a  poor  fellow- 
mortal.  The  fact  that  the  Saviour  died  for  him  is 
sufficient  evidence  that  he  may  be,  and  in  some 
instances  will  be,  a  trophy  of  redeeming  love  and 
grace. 

The  dialect  of  the  sailor,  again,  prejudices  the  se 
riousness  of  his  Christian  character  with  the  com 
munity.  You  can  hardly  associate  the  solemnity  of 
religion  with  the  queerness  of  his  nautical  phrases. 
And  yet,  his  dialect  is  the  most  concise  and  expres- 
bive  known  to  human  speech;  and  it  will  wing  u 


SHAKING   IN   THE   WIND.  51 

prayer  to  heaven  as  fast  as  that  conveyed  in  more 
polished  terms. 

Among  the  sailors  in  one  of  our  navy-yards,  one 
winter  that  I  was  connected  with  it,  there  was  un 
usual  religious  feeling.  Of  the  little  crew  attached 
to  the  receiving  ship,  almost  all  became  hopefully 
pious.  I  asked  one  of  those  sailors,  as  I  met  him  in 
the  yard,  how  they  were  getting  on  as  to  religion. 
"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  we  have  all  got  on  the  right  tack 
now,  except  one,  and  he  is  shaking  in  the  wind." 
Now  find  me,  in  all  the  compass  of  the  English  tongue, 
a  phrase  so  significant  and  expressive  as  this  of  the 
situation  of  one  hesitating  between  inclination  and 
duty. 


52  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

OH,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  oursels  as  others  sec  us, 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us, 
And  foolish  notion  ! 


BURNS. 


NAVY  CHAPLAINS  -  A  REFORMER  IX  WORD  AND  ONE  IN  DEED  —  THE  CAPSTAN 
AS  A  PULPIT  —  THE  SAILOR  IN  VIEW  OF  DEATH  -  SICKNESS  AT  SEA  AND 
ON  SHORE  COMPARED  -  BURIAL  IN  THE  DEEP  AND  UNDER  THE  SOD  —  THE 

WORLD'S  DEBT  TO  THE  SAILOR—  CHRISTIANITY  HIS  CREDITOR  —  HIS  LIFE 

AND  CHARACTER  LITTLE  KNOWN  -  HIS  NATURE  IN  RUINS  -  HOW  TO  BE 
BUILT  AGAIN  -  HOMES  VERSUS  BOARDING-HOUSES  -  THE  PLEA  OF  PHI 
LANTHROPY  -  AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  POCKET  -  SOURCES  OF  ENCOURAGEMENT 
—CHRISTIAN  PHILANTHROPY  MIGHTY. 


have  been  told,  through  one  of  our  religions 
journals,  that  the  sailors  connected  with  our  national 
service  would  be  much  better  men,  if  their  chaplains 
were  better  ministers.  This  indiscriminate  reproach 
was  penned  by  one  who  had  just  entered  the  service 
as  a  sort  of  moral  reformer.  His  rebuke,  however, 
was  confined  to  his  language;  it  derived  no  force 
from  his  own  example  ;  for  when  ordered  to  sea,  he 
threw  up  his  commission.  This  was  his  way  ot 
showing  IMS  interest  in  sailors. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  in  eulogy  of  the  chaplains  : 
many  of  them  are  well  qualified  for  their  duties,  and 


CAPSTAN  FOR  A   PULPIT,  53 

are  faithful  in  discharging  them ;  while  a  few  owe 
their  appointments  to  political  influence,  and  are  a 
moral  incubus  on  the  corps.  But  a  bishop  inditing 
a  party  pasquinade,  and  a  politician  consecrating  a 
priest,  are  both  very  much  out  of  their  calling. 

So  far  are  sailors  themselves  from  being  removed 
by  their  habits  beyond  the  influences  of  religious 
truth,  that  could  I  at  all  times  select  my  pulpit,  place 
of  worship,  and  auditory,  I  would  take  the  capstan  of 
a  ship-of-the-line,  with  her  thousand  sailors  on  her 
spar-deck,  and  if  I  failed  of  making  an  impression 
there,  I  should  despair  of  making  it  anywhere. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  these  impressions  are  less 
permanent  than  those  made  on  other  men,  for  an  im 
pression,  the  more  easily  it  is  made,  is  the  more  easily 
obliterated.  An  inscription  in  wax  perishes  almost 
tinder  your  style,  but  engraved  on  marble  it  remains, 
and  will  be  read  long  after  the  hand  that  traced  it 
hath  forgot  its  cunning.  Yet,  without  doubt,  many 
a  sailor  will  retain  the  images  of  truth  impressed  on 
his  soul,  and  will  be  graciously  remembered  in  that 
day  when  God  shall  number  up  his  jewels. 
-  Another  feature  in  the  character  of  the  sailor  is  his 
resignation  in  death.  He  looks  upon  this  dread  event, 
come  at  what  time  and  in  what  shape  it  may,  as  a 
fixed  dispensation  of  Providence  which  he  cannot 
alter.  He  regards  it  as  the  decision  of  a  power  which 
it  would  be  idle  to  resist ;  as  the  appointment  of  a 
wisdom  which  it  would  be  impiety  to  arraign.  Hence 


54  THE   SEA   AND  THE  SAILOR. 

he  submits  himself  calmly,  and  without  a  murmur, 
to  the  fearful  issue. 

One  call  on  his  forgotten  God  to  save, 

One  thought  of  those  he  never  more  may  see, 

A  desperate  struggle  with  the  conquering  wave, 
A  wild  farewell,  a  gasping  agony, 

A  bubbling  groan,  and  all  with  him  is  o'er ; — 

Nor  friends  nor  home  will  see  the  sailor  more. 

Oh,  there  is  something  in  this  hurried  form 
Of  leaving  life  and  all  its  lovely  things, 

Which  fills  the  heart  with  dread — 'tis  not  the  storm, 
The  rock,  or  wave,  that  gives  to  death  these  stings : 

It  is  the  sudden,  unexpected  stroke 

By  which  our  last  link  to  the  world  is  broke. 

Death  is  a  serious  thing,  come  how  it  may ; 

Fearful  though  it  appear  in  our  repose, 
When  this  our  breath  and  being  ebb  away, 

As  music  to  its  mild,  melodious  close ; 
And  where  no  parting  pangs  a  shadow  cast 
On  that  sweet  look — the  loveliest  and  the  last. 

But  'tis  not  thus  the  shipwrecked  sailor  dies — 

A  sudden  tempest  or  a  hidden  rock, 
And  on  the  gale  his  fluttering  canvas  flies, 

And  down  he  sinks,  with  one  engulfing  shock ! 
While  'mid  the  dashing  waves  is  heard  his  prayer, 
As  now  he  strikes  his  strong  arms  in  despair ! 

It  has  been  my  melancholy  lot  to  see  many  sailors 
die.  In  the  "West  Indies  we  were  swept  to  the  sepul 
chre  of  the  wave  by  the  yellow  fever,  and  in  the 
Mediterranean  by  the  cholera.  These  diseases,  suf- 


A    BURIAL    AT   SEA, 


ficiently  terrific  on  land,  are  inexpressibly  more  so 
within  the  confined  inclosures  of  a  man-of-war.  Our 
sailors  fell  like  the  first  drops  of  a  thunder-shower  ; 
but  not  a  word  of  fear  or  complaint  escaped  the  lips 
of  any.  As  death  approached,  the  sufferer,  confessing 
his  manifold  transgressions,  threw  himself  on  the 
compassion  of  Christ.  As  objects  grew  dark  around 
him,  as  his  breath  ebbed  away,  and  the  pulses  in  his 
frame  stood  still,  I  have  seen  that  eye  lit  with  a  trans 
port  over  which  death  and  the  grave  have  no  power. 

We  die  at  home  in  the  Sabbath  <3alm  of  our  hushed 
chamber;  the  poor  sailor  dies  at  sea,  between  the 
narrow  decks  of  his  rolling  vessel.  The  last  accents 
which  greet  our  ears  are  the  tenderest  expressions  of 
sympathy  and  affection,  such  as  flow  from  a  mother's 
devotedness,  a  sister's  truth,  a  husband's  solicitude, 
or  a  brother's  cares.  The  last  sounds  heard  by  the 
dying  sailor  are  the  hoarse  murmurings  of  that  re 
morseless  wave,  which  seems  to  complain  at  the  delay 
of  its  victim. 

"We  are  buried  beneath  the  green  tree,  where  love 
and  grief  may  go  to  plant  their  flowers,  and  number 
over  our  virtues;  the  poor  sailor  is  hearsed  in  the 
dark  depths  of  the  ocean,  there  to  drift  about  in  its 
under-currents,  without  a  memorial,  and  without  rest, 
till  the  great  judgment-day.  Always  the  child  of 
misfortune,  impulse,  and  error  —  his  brief  life  filled 
with  privations,  hardships,  and  perils  —  his  grave  in 
the  foaming  deep  !  Though  man  pity  him  not,  God 


56  THE   SEA    AND  THE   SAILOR. 

will  remember  his  weaknesses  and  trials  in  the  day 
of  his  last  account. 

It  should  be  remembered  and  noted  here,  that  the 
most  of  what  is  endured  by  the  sailor  inures  to  the 
benefit  of  his  species.  The  whole  world  shares  in  the 
fruits  of  his  sufferings.  The  light  of  the  sun  is 
scarcely  more  universal  than  the  benefits  which  flow 
from  his  enterprise.  To  his  hardships  we  are  in 
debted  for  most  of  the  elegancies,  and  tor  many  of 
the  substantial  comforts  of  life.  He  is  the  only  being 
who  puts  his  life  at  peril  to  bring  to  our  hearth  the 
products  of  other  climes,  the  fabrics  of  other  lands. 

But  for  the  courage  and  hardships  of  the  sailor, 
what  would  have  been  the  condition  of  this  continent 
of  North  America,  now  the  fairest  abode  of  humanity 
and  freedom  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ?  Would  golden 
harvests  wave  over  its  hills,  and  the  sound  of  its 
manufactories  overpower  the  roar  of  its  waterfalls  ? 
Would  the  sacred  temple  heave  its  spire  above  a 
hundred  swelling  cities  and  ten  thousand  romantic 
villages  ?  Would  the  triumphs  of  philosophy  and  art 
adorn  the  portico  and  grove  ?  Rather,  wrould  not  the 
primeval  forest  still  gloom  over  these  hills  and  val 
leys  ;  their  thick  shadows  be  broken  only  by  the  wig 
wam  and  watch-fires  of  the  naked  savage  ? 

And  but  for  the  same  daring  enterprise  of  the  sailor, 
we,  who  sit  safely  under  the  shadow  of  the  American 
tree  of  liberty,  might  be  slavishly  picking  the  crumbs 
of  a  miserable  subsistence,  under  the  crushing  weight 


of  the  aristocratic  institutions  of  Europe.  Under 
God,  it  may  be  that  we  owe  our  very  existence  to 
the  sailor,  certainly  much  that  dignifies  and  adorns  it. 

But  for  the  sailor,  all  intercourse  with  foreign 
lands  would  at  once  cease ;  every  ocean  would  be  as 
impassable  as  the  fabled  waves  of  that  sea  over  which 
even  the  adventurous  bird  never  winged  its  way ; 
our  very  position  on  the  globe,  central  as  it  now  is, 
would  be  as  isolated  as  the  Egyptian  pyramid  tower 
ing  above  its  desert  of  sand,  or  Mohammed's  coffin, 
suspended  between  heaven  and  earth. 

But  for  the  sailor,  the  breaking  light  of  Christianity 
might  have  lingered  for  centuries  on  the  eastern 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean ;  and  never,  perhaps, 
have  reached  the  magnificent  throne  of  the  Caesars, 
till  that  throne  had  crumbled  under  the  iron  heel  of 
the  Yandal.  And  now,  who  but  the  sailor  carries  the 
missionary  to  his  field  of  labor,  and  the  Bible  to  the 
hearth  of  the  pagan — that  blessed  book  whose  holy 
light  is  kindling  along  the  icy  cliffs  of  Greenland, 
throwing  its  radiance  over  the  benighted  bosom  of 
Africa,  and  pouring  the  splendors  of  a  fresh  morn 
along  the  darkened  banks  of  the  Ganges  ?  In  the  last 
great  jubilee  of  nations,  redeemed  by  the  love  of 
Christ,  millions  on  every  shore  will  hymn  the  obliga 
tions  of  the  WORLD  to  the  SAILOR. 

We  have  thus  attempted  to  trace  a  few  of  the  more 
marked  features  in  the  character  of  the  sailor,  as  they 
are  impressed  upon  him  by  his  ocean-life.  I  have 

3* 


58  THE    SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

sketched  his  generosity,  his  courage,  his  improvi 
dence,  his  prejudices,  his  superstition,  his  submission 
to  just  punishment,  his  love  of  excitement,  his  respect 
for  female  excellence,  his  humanity  to  dumb  animals, 
his  frankness  and  honesty,  his  susceptibility  to  religious 
impression,  his  resignation  in  death.  Those  who  have 
followed  me  through  these  traits  of  his  character, 
with  the  veritable  illustrations  which  have  been 
given,  have  arrived,  I  doubt  not,  at  this  conclusion, — 
that  the  character  of  the  sailor  is  but  imperfectly  un 
derstood  by  those  whose  occupations  confine  them  to 
the  land. 

Another  conviction  must  also  have  anchored  itself 
in  our  minds,  and  that  is,  that  the  character  of  the 
sailor,  in  many  of  its  features,  is  peculiar  to  himself; 
and  that  the  ordinary  rules  of  moral  judgment,  ap 
plied  to  him,  would  do  a  serious  injustice.  We  have 
found,  in  the  analysis  of  his  character,  some  traits 
which  call  for  our  stern  reprehension  ;  but  many  more 
which  claim  our  admiration  and  tears.  The  sailor  is 
the  most  affecting  illustration  that  can  be  found  on 
our  globe  of  the  magnificent  ruins  in  which  our  nature 
lies.  The  massive  wall  and  majestic  column,  the 
sculptured  architrave  and  glowing  frieze  of  this  moral 
temple,  are  blended  together  in  one  common  wreck. 

Such  are  the  habits,  tastes,  and  associations  of  the 
sailor  in  his  wild,  rude,  ocean-life,  that  they  quite 
unfit  him  for  the  elegancies,  and  even  the  sober  re 
alities  of  the  shore.  When  he  lands  among  us,  seek- 


HOMES   VEKSUS   HELLS.  59 

ing  rest  and  diversion  from  the  fatigues  of  his  long 
voyage,  where  shall  he  go  2  Friendless  and  kinless 
as  he  often  is,  he  finds  none  to  take  him  to  a  genial 
home,  and 

Question  him  the  story  of  his  life ; 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field ; 

Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent,  deadly  breach, 

And  love  him  for  the  dangers  he  has  passed, 

As  he  would  you,  that  you  did  pity  them. 

Oh,  no,  our  Desdemonas  are  all  dead;  though  the 
tragic  tales  of  Othello  still  survive  in  the  disastrous 
lot  of  the  sailor. 

Where,  then,  shall  the  homeless  mariner  moor  his 
ship,  and  find  snug-harbor?  Save  in  the  establish 
ment  of  Sailors'  Homes,  there  is  but  one  anchorage 
left  him,  and  that  is  those  grog-shops  under  the  name 
of  sailor  boarding-houses,  on  every  portal  of  which 
should  be  written,  THIS  is  THE  WAY  TO  HELL,  LEADING 

DOWN    TO   THE    GATES    OF  THE  GKAVE.       For  what  is  the 

fate  of  the  poor  sailor  in  these  receptacles  of  drunken 
ness  and  crime  ?  Just  what  might  be  expected  :  he 
is  made  delirious  with  drugged  liquors,  robbed,  and 
turned  half  naked  into  the  streets.  If  it  be  possible 
for  Satan  to  be  disgusted  with  any  of  the  miserable 
wretches  driven  into  his  realm,  it  must  be  with  the 
monsters  who  keep  these  dens  ! 

From  such  monsters,  less  merciful  than  cannibals — 
for  they  devour  their  victims  and  end  their  misery — 
the  sailor  has  but  ONE  refuge,  and  that  is  in  the  pro- 


60  THE   SEA    AND   THE   SAILOR. 

visions  of  philanthropy — in  those  HOMES  which  Hu 
manity  and  Christian  Benevolence  are  solicited  to 
provide  for  him.  In  such  a  home  only  is  he  safe. 
In  any  other  place  he  will  inevitably  be  the  dupe  and 
victim  of  avarice  and  crime. 

I  have  no  confidence  in  those  sailor  boarding- 
houses  which  have  reformed  themselves  for  the  sake 
of  custom.  The  motive  stamps  the  whole  establish 
ment  with  just  suspicion.  They  have  always  two 
systems  of  accommodation,  as  they  have  two  sets  of 
customers.  They  have  cold  water  for  those  who  dis 
like  rum,  and  rum  for  those  who  dislike  cold  water  ; 
and  little  is  the  difference  to  them,  provided  only  they 
can  keep  their  man  till  they  have  gone  to  the  bottom 
of  his  pocket. 

If  it  be  asked  where  is  the  necessity  for  taxing  the 
benevolence  of  the  community  for  the  support  of  the 
SAILORS'  HOME,  since  he  returns  with  the  wages  of 
his  voyage  in  his  pocket,  I  answer  with  another  ques 
tion,  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  who,  before 
he  has  reached  this  Home,  has  fallen  into  the  teeth 
of  those  land-sharks,  and  been  devoured  of  all  his 
means  ?  Where  shall  he  go  ?  Where  shall  he  find  a 
Good  Samaritan  and  a  hospitable  inn  ?  Where,  but 
in  that  happy  resource  of  Christian  Philanthropy — a 
well-organized  and  authorized  Sailors'  Home? — a 
home  where  he  can  rest  from  the  weariness  and  fa 
tigue  of  his  voyages. 

These  intervals  in  a  sea-life  are  dearer  to  the  sailor 


APPEAL   TO   THE   POCKET.  61 

than  landsmen  know.  Into  them  are  thrown  the  few 
hours  of  rest  and  enjoyment  which  relieve  his  hard 
lot.  His  sea-attire  excludes  him,  on  coming  to  land, 
from  our  large,  well-regulated  hotels.  Nor  could  he, 
if  admitted  into  one  of  them,  endure  the  expense. 
Shall  he  be  forced,  then,  into  those  abodes  of  vagrancy 
and  guilt,  which  jeopard  the  peace  and  pollute  the 
moral  atmosphere  of  our  large  cities  ?  Long  enough 
have  these  infamous  haunts  of  dissipation  and  crime 
been  the  resort  of  the  sailor.  In  them  he  has  left  the 
earnings  of  his  best  years,  his  peace  of  conscience, 
and  his  hope  of  heaven  !  They  have  been  the  grave 
of  his  soul. 

We  must,  then,  provide  him  with  something  de 
serving  the  name  of  home  on  a  scale  of  keeping 
with  his  better  taste,  and  commensurate  with  his 
wants.  It  should  be  furnished  with  agreeable  apart 
ments,  a  wholesome,  attractive  table,  and  a  reading- 
room,  supplied  with  the  papers  and  periodicals  of 
the  day.  It  should  contain  within  itself  sources  of 
innocent  recreation  and  amusement ;  all  intoxicating 
drinks  should  be  excluded,  and  the  whole  should  be 
under  the  care  of  a  family  who  love  the  sailor,  who 
will  sympathize  with  his  bereavements,  watch  over 
him  when  sick,  restrain  his  improvidence,  take  a 
heartfelt  pleasure  in  ministering  to  his  wants,  and  be 
to  him  father,  mother,  and  sister. 

Let  such  a  home  as  this  be  furnished  the  sailor  in 
reality  and  not  merely  in  name,  and  you  have  laid 


62  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

the  foundation  of  his  respectability  and  usefulness 
here,  and  his  happiness  hereafter.  But  without  this 
primary  provision,  all  our  efforts  to  elevate  him.  to 
establish  him  in  habits  of  sobriety  and  virtue,  will 
be  in  vain.  Our  house  will  be  built  on  the  sand; 
and  we  shall  find  that  we  have  but  curbed  and 
graded  the  stream  of  his  depravity,  while  the  fount 
ain  boils  as  high  as  ever.  Here,  then,  is  a  tangible 
object  which  all  who  read  can  reach.  If  you  cannot 
build  entire  a  sailors'  home,  you  can  each  put  a  stone 
into  its  foundation,  and  a  brick  into  its  walls.  It  was 
such  contributions  as  these  that  pillared  the  mag 
nificence  of  the  Ephesian  temple,  and  reared  over 
the  august  shrine  of  St.  Peter's  the  splendors  of  the 
heaven-suspended  dome. 

In  such  a  home  only  as  we  argue  for  can  the  sailor 
enjoy  religious  instructions,  or  be  brought  under 
moral  restraints.  He  is  on  shore  but  a  few  weeks, 
or  months,  at  longest ;  and  it  is  of  infinite  moment 
to  him,  as  an  accountable  being,  that  divine  truth 
and  the  elevating  influences  of  correct  social  life 
should  reach  him  in  every  shape  possible.  Even 
with  these  brief  advantages,  he  must  be  almost  a 
miracle  of  susceptibility,  if  he  do  not  go  to  sea  again 
without  any  radical  transformation  of  character. 
Without  them,  what  then  can  be  hoped  for  ? 

The  moral  results  of  this  exclusion  from  the  light 
of  truth  and  the  humanizing  influences  of  society  an: 
fatal  to  any  class  of  men,  but  fearful  especially  to  the 


GROUNDS   OP   ENCOURAGEMENT.  63 

sailor.  It  is  this  social  neglect  and  Christian 
abandonment  that  makes  the  pirate.  Cast  any 
class  of  men,  whose  hearts  the  restraints  of  reli 
gion  have  not  reached,  upon  the  ocean,  and  cut  off 
all  intercourse  with  the  social  influences  of  the 
shore,  and  they  will  become  a  reckless  crew  of  rov 
ing  corsairs. 

Even  in  a  three  years'  cruise  in  a  man-of-war,  though 
frequently  in  contact  with  the  shore,  there  is  often  a 
perceptible  DEGENERACY  in  those  on  board.  Let  this 
deprivation  of  moral  and  social  influence  be  con 
tinued,  and  the  Somers'  tragedy  would  be  but  a 
prelude  to  the  bloody  drama  of  horrors  that  would 
invest  the  ocean.  So  that  the  lives  of  the  defenceless 
thousands  who  traverse  the  deep,  and  all  the  great 
maritime  interests  of  the  world,  are  at  issue  on  the 
moral  influences  which  you  throw  around  the  sailor 
while  on  land. 

It  is  proper  to  remark  here,  that  there  is  nothing 
in  the  alleged  failures  of  past  experience  to  discour 
age  such  benign  efforts  in  behalf  of  seamen,  espe 
cially  when  these  efforts  are  contrasted  with  results 
in  other  departments  of  Christian  philanthropy. 
Twenty,  and,  I  may  say,  forty  sailors,  have  been 
converted  to  Christ  to.  one  Mohammedan  or  intelli 
gent  Hindoo,  though  the  efforts  and  sacrifices  for  the 
latter  would  outweigh,  ten  to  one,  those  made  for  the 
former.  Yet,  who  thinks  of  abandoning  the  Mussul 
man  and  Gentoo  to  their  fatal  superstitions  ?  No 


64:  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

one.  We  pursue  our  labor  of  love  ;  we  exercise  our 
FAITH  ;  we  hold  on  to  the  PROMISES  ;  and  the  Church 
will  continue  to  do  the  same,  unless  her  hopes  shall 
have  been  realized,  when  centuries  have  rolled  over 
our  graves. 


CHRISTIANITY   FOE   THE   SAILOR.  65 


CHAPTER   V. 

LOOK  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  'round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now — 

Shallows  may  ground  thee ; — 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So !  let  the  vessel  wear, — 

There  swept  the  blast  1 

MRS.  SOUTHEY. 

THE    RELATION    OF   THE    CHURCH   TO   THE    SAILOR THE    POETRY   AND   THE 

PROSE     OF    HIS     LOT HIS    PRIVATIONS    AND    HARDSHIPS HIS    WEAR, 

TEAR,  AND    FARE NOW    REEFING    ON    THE    YARD-ARM NOW    BUFFET 
ING     THE     BILLOWS NOW    A     PALE     CORSE    IN   THE    DEEP    SEA THE 

LAZARETTO    AT    SEA    AND    THE    EPIDEMIC    ASHORE — HOME    UNKNOWN    TO 

THE    SEA WHERE    TO    FIND    SOLITUDE THE    SOCIAL    CONDITION  AT  SEA 

NECESSARILY    A    DESPOTISM — THE     SABBATH     PRACTICALLY    UNKNOWN 

EFFECT    OF    THIS    MORAL    BEREAVEMENT. 

WE  have  sent  our  missionaries  to  the  icy  cabins  of 
the  Greenlander,  the  scorching  huts  of  the  Hottentot, 
the  squalid  tents  of  the  Arab,  the  desolate  shrines  of 
the  Greek,  and  the  funeral  pyres  of  the  Hindoo. 
Nor  would  I  recall  one  of  these  heralds  of  the  Cross 
from  his  field  of  labor,  or  divert  from  their  present 
object  his  messages  of  love.  I  would  swell  their 
numbers,  and  animate  and  sustain  their  efforts,  till 
every  nation,  enlightened  by  the  truths  which  they 


THE  SEA   AND   THE  SAILOR. 


convey,  should  exclaim  —  How  beautiful  are  the  feet 
of  them  who  preach  the  Gospel  of  peace,  and  bring 
glad  tidings  of  good  things  !  But  I  would  say,  also, 
"  Go  up,  and  look  towards  the  sea." 

Those  ships  moving  to  and  fro  are  freighted  with 
human  life.  Those  veering  sails  obey  the  will  of 
men,  who  sway  the  strong  ship  to  their  purpose,  as 
the  rider  his  steed  —  of  men  whose  graves  may  be  in 
the  depths  of  ocean,  but  over  whose  immortal  natures 
the  gale  and  wreck  have  no  power.  Could  they  per 
ish,  could  the  wave  which  sepulchres  their  forms  be 
the  winding-sheet  of  their  souls,  we  might  withhold 
our  sympathy  and  concern.  But  they  have  spirits 
that  will  sing  in  worlds  of  light,  or  wail  in  regions  of 
woe,  when  the  dirge  of  the  deep  sea  is  over. 

It  is  this  after  state  of  being  that  gives  the  sailor's 
lot  its  strongest  claim  upon  our  Christian  solicitude, 
and  makes  it  meet  that  we  should  endeavor  to  miti 
gate  its  physical  evils,  in  order  that  we  may  secure 
its  future  and  everlasting  good.  His  life  at  sea,  at 
the  best,  is  full  of  hardship  and  peril.  It  can  never 
be  any  thing  else,  so  long  as  the  winds  and  the  waves 
remain. 

The  poet  may  roll  through  it  the  melodies  of  his 
verse,  and  the  painter  throw  around  it  the  enchant 
ments  of  his  pencil  ;  but  its  stern  realities  will  still 
remain,  and  still  assert  themselves  in  the  tragic  hor 
rors  of  the  gale  and  the  wreck.  The  ocean's  harp 
plays  only  anthems  for  the  dead. 


That  they  whose  life  is  on  the  deep  may,  at  times, 
little  reck  of  the  perils  that  environ  them,  is  true ; 
but  this  is  the  result  of  being  inured  to  the  danger, 
even  as  the  peasant,  rocked  by  the  earthquake  at  the 
shaking  base  of  Etna  and  Vesuvius,  sleeps  soundly, 
although  that  sleep  may  be  his  last,  and  day  may 
dawn  over  the  tomb  of  another  Herculaneum !  The 
caverns  of  the  deep  are  full  of  corpses  which  will 
start  from  their  abysses  at  the  summons  of  the  last 
trump ;  and  millions  will  wake  to  an  endless  life  of 
bliss  or  woe — 

"  That  sank  into  the  wave  with  bubbling  groan, 
TJnknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown." 

But  when  these  last  disasters  of  the  sea  are  escaped, 
the  life  of  the  sailor  is  full  of  hardship.  Of  all  the 
quiet  comforts  and  fresh  luxuries  of  the  shore  he  is 
utterly  bereft.  The  products  of  the  garden,  the  fruits 
of  the  vine — all  that  give  variety  and  attraction  to 
our  tables,  never  relieve  his  hard  fare.  His  meals 
are  made  from  bread  which  often  the  hammer  can 
scarcely  break,  and  from  meat  as  dry  and  juiceless  as 
the  bones  which  it  feebly  covers.  A  flowing  bowl  of 
milk,  which  the  child  of  the  poorest  cottager  may 
bring  to  its  lips,  is  as  much  beyond  his  reach  as  the 
nectar  which  sparkled  in  the  goblets  of  the  fabled 
divinities  on  Ida. 

"When  Adam,  under  the  rebuke  of  God,  went  forth 
from  his  lost  Eden,  he  still  found  s.ome  flowers  spring- 


68  THE   SEA   AND  THE   SAILOR. 

ing  up  amid  the  briers  and  brambles  that  infested  his 
path,  and  he  still  had  a  confiding  companion  at  his 
side  to  share  the  sorrows  of  his  lot ;  but  the  sailor 
finds  no  flowers  springing  along  the  pathway  of  the 
sea,  and  no  soothing  companion  there,  except  in  his 
dreams  of  some  far-off  shore. 

When  the  night-storm  pelts  our  secure  abode  on 
the  land,  we  can  close  our  shutters,  and  quietly  for 
get  its  violence  in  the  arms  of  slumber.  Not  so  with 
the  sailor ;  it  summons  him  from  his  hammock  to  the 
yard-arm ;  there,  on  that  giddy  elevation,  while  his 
masts  reel  to  the  sea,  while  the  tempest  is  roaring 
through  his  shrouds,  the  waves  howling  in  tumult 
and  terror  beneath,  the  thunder  bursting  overhead, 
and  the  quick  lightning  scorching  the  eyeballs  that 
meet  its  glare,  the  sailor  attempts  to  reef  sail ! 

One  false  balance,  one  parting  of  the  life-line,  and 
he  is  precipitated  into  the  rushing  sea.  A  shriek  is 
heard  !  but  who,  in  such  a  night  of  storm  and  terror, 
can  save !  A  bubbling  groan  ascends — the  eddying 
wave  closes  over  its  victim — and  he  sinks  to  his  deep 
watery  bier.  His  poor  mother  will  long  wait  and 
watch  for  his  return,  and  his  infant  sister,  unacquaint 
ed  with  death,  will  still  lisp  his  name  in  gladness. 
But  they  will  see  his  face  no  more.  He  has  gone  to 

That  dim  shore,  from  which  nor  wave,  nor  sail, 

Nor  mariner  has  e'er  returned — nor  one 

Fond  farewell  word  traversed  the  waters  back. 

These  are  not  perils  which  overtake  him  merely 


DISEASE   IN   A   MAN-OF-WAR.  60 

once  in  his  life,  or  once  in  the  progress  of  a  voyage. 
They  come  at  all  times,  in  every  clime,  and  in  every 
sea.  They  are  constantly  occurring  links  in  the  chain 
of  his  strange  experience ;  they  are  his  life's  history ; 
they  belong  to  the  sailor's  universal  lot.  They  are 
the  first  as  well  as  the  last  act  in  the  great  tragedy  of 
the  sea. 

When  disease  assails  us  on  land,  when  a  fatal  epi 
demic  strikes  our  cities,  filling  all  hearts  with  dread^ 
overpowering  the  timid,  and  reducing  the  brave  to 
despair ;  when  only  the  hearse  is  heard  in  the  streets, 
and  they  that  look  out  at  their  windows  are  darkened, 
we  have  an  escape  left,  at  least  a  temporary  refuge 
in  the  surrounding  country.  But  when  this  fatal 
malady  reaches  a  man-of-war,  it  comes  like  the  exe 
cutioner  to  a  prisoner  in  his  cell.  Beyond  the  wall 
of  that  floating  prison  there  is  no  escape  but  into  the 
depths  of  ocean.  Each  must  stand  in  his  place  under 
this  cloud  charged  with  death.  He  may  not  move, 
or  even  tremble,  though  the  next  bolt  is  to  strike 
himself. 

Confined  as  all  are  to  their  floating  lazaretto,  they 
only  can  go  over  the  ship's  side,  who  move  in  silence 
and  in  canvas  cerements  to  the  sepulchre  of  the  sea. 
That  hollow  sound — that  plunge  of  the  hammocked 
dead  into  the  deep,  can  be  imagined,  perhaps,  by  those 
who  have  heard  the  coffin  of  a  loved  companion 
mournfully  rumbling  into  its  untimely  grave.  But  the 
putrid  corpses  of  the  buried  coming  up  through  the 


70  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

stagnant  surface  of  the  sea,  and  floating  in  spectral  ter 
ror  around  the  devoted  ship,  constitute  an  appalling 
climax  of  horror  which  landsmen  can  never  know. 

No  carnage  that  war  ever  yet  made  on  the  decks 
of  a  man-of-war,  can  rival  in  terrors  the  helplessness 
and  despair  caused  by  the  pestilence.  Phrensy  may 
fill  churches  when  the  earthquake  rocks,  but  it  is  ne 
cessity  that  dooms  mariners  to  die  in  masses  on  a 
man-of-war,  when  the  cholera,  or  yellow  fever,  or 
East  India  dysentery  have  invaded  her. 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  have  exciting  charms  for 
the  robust  sailor,  that  reconcile  him  to  many  of  the 
evils  of  his  lot.  But  in  scenes  like  those  of  sickness 
and  death,  he  sighs  for  the  shore,  and  the  stoutest 
heart  quails  and  feels,  if  it  does  not  say  with  the  poet, 

"  Ah  !  let  me  live  on  land,  where  rivers  run, 
Where  shady  trees  may  screen  me  from  the  sun ; 
Where  I  may  feel,  secure,  the  fragrant  air ; 
Where,  whate'cr  toil  or  wearying  pains  I  bear, 

Those  eyes  which  look  away  all  human  ill 
May  shed  on  me  their  still,  sweet,  constant  light, 
And  the  hearts  I  love  may,  day  and  night, 

Be  found  beside  me  safe  and  clustering  still" 

But  how  little  is  the  sailor  conversant  with  delights 
like  these  !  That  word  HOME,  with  the  thousand  quiet 
thoughts  and  endearing  associations  which  it  brings 
with  it,  is  not  known  to  the  vocabulary  of  the  sea. 
Were  strangers  to  enter  our  dwelling,  turn  our  wife 
and  children  out  of  it,  throw  the  furniture  into  the 


THE  SEA  KNOWS  NO  HOME.  71 

streets,  swing  hammocks  in  the  chambers,  fill  the 
parlors  with  the  arms  and  munitions  of  war,  narrow 
the  foundations  to  a  keel,  unroof  the  walls,  and  set 
the  whole  rocking  as  if  an  earthquake  were  under  it, 
we  should  have  some  conception  of  a  SAILOR'S  home. 
"We  might  possibly  endure  such  a  home,  could  wife 
or  children  share  it  with  us ;  but  without  them,  it 
would  be  like  a  ruined  altar  where  the  vestal  flame 
had  gone  out,  or  a  trampled  shrine  from  which  the 
divinity  had  fled. 

There  is  nothing  at  sea  like  home.  The  sympathy 
which  sanctifies  the  domestic  hearth  is  all  unknown 
to  the  sailor.  Those  tender  assiduities  which  flow 
from  hearts  allied,  relieve  not  his  rough  experience. 
There  are  no  hearts  around  him  into  wThich  he  can 
pour  the  sorrows  that  oppress  his  own.  Although 
the  fountain  may  be  there,  and  swelling  up  to  its  marble 
curb,  tears  may  not  channel  his  rough  cheeks.  His 
grief  is  confined  within  him,  as  lightning  in  the  iso 
lated  cloud. 

It  is  this  sense  of  loneliness,  this  excision  from 
social  love  and  sympathy,  that  gives  to  the  sailor's 
lot  its  most  dreary  features.  It  throws  a  desert  around 
him,  barren  as  that  on  which  the  solitary  palm  of 
the  Arabian  desert  casts  its  shade.  "Would  you 
know  what  real  solitude  is,  wake  up  on  board  a  man- 
of-war,  or  in  the  heart  of  London  or  Paris,  where, 
among  the  swarming  multitudes  of  the  mighty  me 
tropolis,  there  is  not  one  that  has  ever  heard  of  your 


72  THE   SEA    AND  THE   SAILOR. 

existence ;  and  where  your  death  would  be  as  little 
noticed  as  the  falling  of  a  leaf  in  the  great  forest. 

The  social  condition  and  government  of  a  ship  is, 
necessarily,  perhaps,  a  despotism.  There  must  be 
some  one  there  whose  authority  shall  be  supreme. 
Emergencies  are  constantly  occurring  which  forbid 
all  consultation.  The  slightest  delay  in  giving  the 
orders  would  put  in  peril  the  lives  of  all  on  board. 
The  ship's  safety  lies  in  instant  action.  This  makes 
it  necessary  that  her  commander  should  have  abso 
lute  sway.  This  authority,  too,  he  must  possess  at  all 
times.  If  emergencies  only  can  confer  it,  who  shall 
judge  of  the  necessity?  A  disagreement  on  that 
point  might  result  in  mutiny. 

The  sailor  is,  therefore,  necessarily  under  a  despot 
ism,  and  is  exposed  to  all  the  ill-treatment  and  cruel 
ties  which  an  abuse  of  this  absolute  authority  can 
inflict.  To  question  this  authority  is  a  crime ;  to 
resist  it  is  death.  He  has  no  alternative  but  in  sub 
mission  ;  and  he  does  submit,  though  his  wrongs  lay 
in  ruins  his  strong  heart. 

Nor  do  the  hardships  and  cruelties  which  the  sailor 
endures  stop  with  those  which  result  from  oppression 
and  tyranny  in  his  commander  ;  the  ocean  has  been 
incarnadined  with  his  blood,  to  gratify  the  animosity 
or  ambition  of  princes.  The  terrible  triumphs  of 
Trafalgar  and  the  Nile  filled  the  English  Isle  with 
exultation;  but  it  filled  the  ocean  with  her  dead. 
And  never  was  the  naval  battle  fought,  or  victory 


A   MORAL   BEREAVEMENT.  73 

won,  which  the  life-blood  of  the  sailor  did  not  pay 
for. 

Could  the  sea  reveal  its  secrets,  could  the  wrongs 
endured  on  that  element  find  a  tongue,  there  would 
be  louder  thunders  there  than  those  which  roll  from 
the  breaker  and  the  cloud. 

If  the  spirits  of  those  whom  Moslem  jealousy  has 
murdered  and  sunk  in  the  Bosphorus  still  float  that 
stream  in  the  form  of  complaining  birds,  which  never 
rest,  the  ocean  might  be  covered  with  these  shrieking 
symbols  of  outrage  and  crime.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
the  organ  tones  of  the  sea  are  so  full  of  plaintive 
melancholy  and  grief;  nor  is  it  surprising  that  all  the 
minstrelsy  of  the  mariner  partakes  of  the  same  sad 
ness.  Any  other  notes  with  him  are  like  jocund  airs 
under  the  cypress  that  droops  over  the  dead. 

Were  there  now  an  offset  to  all  the  sailor's  dis 
abilities  in  his  improved  moral  condition  when  at 
sea,  neither  himself  nor  his  friends  would  remon 
strate  or  complain  in  his  behalf.  But  so  far  from 
this,  the  institution  which  is  at  the  foundation  of  all 
true  morality  and  religion,  is  almost  unknown  at  sea, 
as  to  the  observance  required  of  it  in  the  law  of  God. 

If  the  Sabbath  bring  with  it  a  cessation  from  labor 
in  some  extraneous  departments,  still  the  great  busi 
ness  of  managing  the  ship  in  the  midst  of  fickle  and 
violent  elements  must  go  on.  The  sailor  is,  therefore, 
deprived  of  the  greater  part  of  the  benefits  which 
result  from  a  regular  observance  of  the  Lord's  day. 

4 


THE    SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 


This  is  a  moral  bereavement  which  no  Christian 
community  on  land  could  long  survive.  To  take  the 
Sabbath  from  the  heart  and  habits  of  man,  is  like 
taking  the  dew  of  heaven  from  the  plant.  The  last 
weapon  which  Atheism  has  resorted  to  has  always 
been  its  extinction.  The  little  religion  which  the 
sailor  possesses  must  take  root  then  without  such 
nourishment ;  and  it  grows  as  do  violets  and  myrtles 
on  the  verge  of  the  avalanche. 


NO   MINISTER   AT   SEA.  75 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MAY  pleasant  breezes  waft  them  home 
That  plough  with  their  keels  the  driving  foam : 
Heaven  be  their  hope,  and  Truth  their  law ; 
And  Conscience  keep  their  souls  in  awe  ! 

PECULIAR  POSITION  OF  A  SHIP  AT  SEA A  QUESTION  FOR  PHILANTHROPY 

PHYSICAL  AND  MORAL  DISABILITIES  CAN    BE   RELIEVED THE   RESPONSI 
BILITY   OF  MERCHANTS INADEQUATE    MEDICAL    RELIEF    FOR    SEAMEN 

PUBLIC   OPINION   EMBODIED  IN  LAW THE    DUTY  OF  MEN  ASHORE HOW 

TO  IMPRESS    THE    SAILOR CAPTURING   THE    CITADEL    OF    HIS     HEART 

HINTS   FOR  A  SAILOR'S    PREACHER WHAT  WE  CAN  DO HOPE    FOR   THE 

MARINER THE  CHURCH  HIS  PATRON  AND  FRIEND PLEA  IN  HIS  BEHALF. 

THE  moral  condition  of  the  sailor  receives  little  or 
no  advantage  from  the  ordinance  of  the  gospel  min 
istry.  Not  one  ship  in  a  thousand  that  floats  the 
deep  has  a  person  on  board  whose  sacred  office  it  is 
to  inculcate  on  those  around  him  the  precepts  of  re 
ligion  ;  and  by  too  many  even  the  Bible  has  been 
considered  as  almost  out  of  its  element,  and  useless  if 
sent  among  sailors.  It  reached  the  watch-fires  of  the 
savage  long  before  it  found  the  capstan  of  the  mari 
ner.  It  threw  its  light  around  the  solitary  steps  of 
the  Arab,  when  Egyptian  night  hung  on  the  great 
highway  of  nations. 

Prayers  may  have  been  offered  for  those  who  go 


76  THE   SEA   AND  THE  SAILOR. 


down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  who  do  business  on  the 
great  waters,  but  they  have  been  often  passionless  as 
purchased  masses  performed  for  the  dead.  The  rela 
tive  position  of  a  ship  at  sea  to  the  rest  of  the  Chris 
tian  world,  has,  until  recently,  been  like  that  of  a  ball 
suspended  in  the  centre  of  a  hollow  sphere.  It  is  this 
isolation  that  has  placed  it  beyond  the  reach,  and 
seemingly  beyond  the  sympathies  of  those  who  dwell 
on  the  land.  Too  many  have  regarded  it  as  a  thing 
with  which  they  had  no  community  of  interest  or 
feeling,  no  common  bond  of  brotherhood  ;  and  they 
have  abandoned  it  to  its  calamities  and  its  crimes. 

When  guilt  and  misery  have  done  their  worst, 
when  the  pirate-flag  has  been  unfurled  where  the  in 
signia  of  commerce  streamed  before,  instead  of  ac 
cusing  their  own  moral  negligence  and  apathy,  they 
have  seemed  to  regard  the  terrible  spectacle  as  an 
exemplification  of  human  depravity,  in  respect  to 
which  they  had  neither  responsibility  nor  control. 

But  the  practical  question  now  arises  in  a  philan 
thropic  age  like  this — What  can  we  do  to  relieve  the 
physical  and  moral  disabilities  of  the  sailor,  and  what 
ought  to  be  done  by  mercantile  and  Christian  com 
munities  in  his  behalf? 

We  cannot,  it  is  true,  lay  the  storms  which  reduce 
his  vessel  to  a  wreck ;  but  we  can  provide  him  with 
something  better  than  a  naked  plank  on  which  to  es 
cape  from  a  watery  grave.  No  vessel  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  leave  a  Christian  port  where  there  is  not 


PHYSICAL   DISABILITIES.  YT 

ample  provision  in  the  shape  of  life-boats  for  the 
preservation  of  all  on  board. 

The  practice  of  shipping  passengers  without  such 
a  provision,  is  cruelty  to  them  and  treachery  to  the 
crew.  In  the  extremities  of  a  disaster  at  sea,  there 
is  no  possibility  of  escape,  except  for  the  few  who 
take  possession  of  the  boats.  The  rest  must  sink 
with  the  ingulfed  wreck  ;  and  the  owners  of  such  a 
ship  unprovided  with  life-boats,  have  a  responsibility 
which  they  must  carry  to  the  bar  of  God  for  the  hu 
man  life  sacrificed  through  their  culpable  neglect. 
Christian  benevolence  cannot,  indeed,  of  itself  furnish 
our  packets  and  merchantmen  with  boats  for  such 
emergencies ;  but  it  can  expostulate  with  their  own 
ers,  and  through  public  opinion  it  has  power  to  make 
that  remonstrance  felt. 

We  can  relieve  the  physical  condition  of  the  sailor 
in  other  respects :  we  can  insist  upon  it  that,  first 
and  foremost  of  all,  his  health  and  comfort  shall  be 
consulted  in  the  quarters  he  is  to  occupy.  To  make 
room  for  an  additional  quantity  of  freight,  he  is  now 
often  obliged  to  swing  his  hammock  where  he  has 
no  wholesome  air,  or  where  he  is  exposed  to  the  ele 
ments. 

His  hours  of  rest  are  always  precarious  ;  and  when 
they  do  occur,  it  is  barbarous  that  he  should  not  be 
allowed  the  few  poor  comforts  which  his  hard  lot  per 
mits.  "We  cannot  reprobate  too  sternly  that  avarice 
and  inhumanity  which  are  more  anxious  for  the 


78  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

preservation  of  a  bale  of  goods  than  the  life  of  a 
human  being.  The  horrors  of  the  Middle  Passage 
are  not  confined  to  the  African  slaver :  they  are 
found  in  other  departments  of  the  marine  service ; 
and  it  is  the  duty  of  Christian  communities  to  look  to 
these  wanton  cruelties,  and  bring  their  authors  to 
merited  chastisement. 

"We  can  also  relieve  the  physical  condition  of  the 
sailor  in  reference  to  his  food.  We  cannot  furnish 
him  with  the  fruits  of  the  garden  and  the  fresh 
products  of  the  field ;  but  we  can  insist  upon  it,  that 
the  provisions  which  he  does  have  shall  be  whole 
some  and  sound,  and  that  they  shall  have  all  the 
variety  compatible  with  a  sea  life.  This  variety  is 
meager  enough  at  best ;  for  there  is  not  an  alms- 
house  in  the  country  where  the  inmates  are  not  bet 
ter  fed  than  the  sailor. 

If  he  complains  of  his  fare,  he  is  met  with  re 
proaches,  and  sent  back  to  his  work  with  abuse  and 
menace.  It  is  for  us  to  come  to  his  relief,  and  to 
bring  the  weight  of  public  opinion  to  bear  upon  his 
wrongs.  He  cannot  redress  his  own  grievances ;  but 
we  can  redress  them,  we  ought  to  redress  them,  and 
we  SHALL  redress  them,  unless  the  instincts  of  human 
ity  within  us  are  dead. 

We  can  relieve  the  physical  condition  of  the  sail 
or,  also,  in  reference  to  disease.  No  provision, 
worthy  of  the  name,  is  now  made  for  his  relief  in 
sickness.  The  pharmacopia  of  a  merchantman  or 


AVERAGE   TERM   OF   LIFE.  79 

whale-ship  that  may  have  a  large  crew  on  board,  is 
confined  to  a  vial  of  laudanum,  an  ounce  of  mercury 
or  blue  pill,  and  a  few  pounds  of  Epsom  salts.  Nor 
is  there  ordinarily  a  person  on  board  that  knows 
when  or  how  even  these  should  be  administered. 
And  if  the  use  of  the  lancet  be  attempted,  it  is  just 
as  likely  to  strike  an  artery  as  a  vein ! 

Yet,  with  these  inadequate  medical  provisions,  to 
which  we  would  hardly  commit  the  life  of  a  pet  dog. 
the  sailor  is  obliged  to  traverse  every  ocean,  and  be 
exposed  to  the  maladies  of  every  clime.  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  he  does  not  live  out  half  his  days, 
or  that  the  average  life  of  American  seamen  is  but 
thirty-six  years  ? 

]STow  it  is  for  religious  and  humane  communities 
to  require  that  every  vessel  shall  have  attached  to 
her,  in  the  capacity  of  captain,  mate,  seaman,  super 
cargo,  or  loblolly-boy,  a  person  who  shall  have  some 
knowledge  of  medicine.  The  presence  of  such  a  per 
son  should  be  made  indispensable  to  her  clearance 
at  the  custom-house.  If  she  attempted  to  leave 
port  without  one,  heavy  penalties  should  fall  on  her 
owners. 

Public  opinion  must  be  made  to  embody  itself  in 
the  shape  of  law;  and  that  law  must  be  enforced, 
not  by  the  occasional  spasms  of  humanity,  but  by  a 
consistent  and  profound  sense  of  duty.  It  is  the  cer 
tainty  of  its  execution  that  gives  a  law  its  moral 
power.  The  Ottoman  throne,  with  all  its  political 


80  THE  SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

deformities,  stands,  because  the  cimiter  of  the  heads 
man  is  sure  to  follow  the  evidences  of  guilt. 

I  inquire  now,  What  can  we  do,  and  what  ought  wo 
to  do,  to  relieve  the  moral  condition  of  the  sailor 
which  we  have  already  surveyed  ?  We  cannot,  it  is 
clear,  gather  these  sons  of  the  ocean  into  our  churches 
on  the  Sabbath ;  but  we  can  run  up  the  Bethel  flag 
over  their  own  decks.  They  have  no  aversions  to 
that  flag,  as  a  class :  it  is  to  them  the  symbol  of 
peace  and  love,  and  the  harbinger  of  that  haven 
where  the  tumults  of  life's  ocean  cease,  and  the 
weary  are  at  rest.  It  is  a  messenger-bird,  come 
through  night  and  storm  from  the  spirit-land. 

Yet,  let  no  one  think  that  mere  sentiment  can 
mold  the  character  of  the  sailor.  The  beings  who 
compose  that  mass  of  life  which  stirs  from  keel  to 
mast-head  on  board  ship,  are  like  rocks  from  nature's 
quarry — feeble  blows  will  not  shape  them  for  the 
great  Builder's  use.  Long  before  they  could  be 
fashioned  by  such  a  process,  the  hand  that  should 
attempt  it  would  have  forgotten  its  cunning. 

Occasion  is  every  thing  in  making  an  impression 
on  the  sailor.  There  are  pauses  in  the  storming  pas 
sions  which  sweep  our  earth  when  the  gentle  accents 
of  truth  can  be  heard.  There  are  periods  of  repose 
in  the  conflicts  of  the  moral  elements  when  celestial 
influences  can  reach  the  human  heart.  The  dew 
falls  when  the  winds  are  laid.  These  intervals  of 
calmness  and  reflection  are  ever  occurring  in  a  sea 


HOW   TO   TAKE  THE   HEART.  81 

life :  and  it  is  in  these  that  the  silent  messages  of 
truth  will  exert  their  greatest  force,  and  produce 
their  most  decisive  results.  When  the  wind,  the 
fire,  and  the  earthquake  had  passed,  that  still,  small 
voice  became  audible,  in  which  the  prophet  recog 
nized  the  whisper  of  his  God. 

These  messages  of  truth  must  be  addressed  directly 
to  the  heart  of  the  sailor.  Their  power  should  be 
exerted,  not  on  those  phantoms  of  skepticism  which 
flit  through  his  mental  twilight,  but  on  their  source, — 
not  on  those  bubbles  of  frivolity  which  brim  the 
fountain  of  his  gushing  heart,  but  on  the  fountain 
itself,  and  the  secret  springs  in  which  it  takes  its 
rise. 

Of  all  beings,  the  sailor  is  most  the  creature  of 
feeling.  Impulse  is  with  him  the  prime  source  of 
action.  His  heart  is  the  bow  from  which  the  arrow 
of  his  life  takes  its  flight  and  direction.  It  is  his 
heart,  therefore,  that  we  are  to  move  upon  with  our 
undivided  strength :  it  is  this  that  we  are  to  be 
leaguer  with  all  our  forces,  and  press  upon  it  at  all 
points,  as  the  encircling  wave  embraces  and  en 
croaches  upon  the  diminishing  isle. 

The  heart  of  a  sailor  once  captured,  the  citadel 
taken — the  outposts  fall.  Even  the  last  poor  picket- 
guard  of  doubt  and  desperation  lays  down  its  arms. 
The  surrender  is  entire :  nor  will  that  captive  to 
Christ  ever  seek  a  ransom,  or  ever  forgive  himself 
that  he  held  out  so  Jong  before  he  struck  his  black 


82  THE   SEA   AND   THE 


flag  to  the  banner  which  streams  in  light  and  love 
from  the  Cross.  But  this  conquest  is  not  easy  :  un 
tutored  and  impulsive  as  the  heart  of  the  sailor  may 
be,  it  is  yet  too  gigantic  in  its  strength  to  be  easily 
overcome.  Cradled  on  the  deep,  and  reared  amid 
the  exhibitions  of  its  gloomy  grandeur  and  strength, 
moral  realities  must  be  made  to  take  to  his  mind  a 
corresponding  vastness,  solemnity,  and  power.  The 
sailor  must  be  made  to 

Feel  his  immortality  o'erleap 
All  space,  all  time,  all  pains,  all  fears,  and  peal, 
Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
This  truth  into  his  ears  —  THOU  LIVEST  FOREVER  ! 

It  is  also  of  the  last  importance  to  know  how  to 
approach  the  sailor,  and  in  what  shape  to  exert  your 
moral  strength.  You  should  not  waste  your  energies 
in  attacking  the  phantoms  of  his  superstition.  You 
should  not  attempt  to  drive  away  the  spectre,  but  to 
pour  light  into  its  grave.  Let  the  response  of  the 
oracle  go,  but  dash  in  pieces  the  oracle  itself.  There 
is  an  altar  in  the  heart  of  the  sailor  inscribed  to  the 
unknown  God.  Him  whom  he  thus  ignorantly  wor 
ships,  aim  to  enthrone  there  in  the  majesty  of  su 
preme  intelligence,  rectitude,  and  love.  Exhibit 
truth  to  him  in  its  real  character.  Throw  the  prac 
tical  into  prominent  relief  :  let  metaphysical  distinc 
tions  lie  where  they  belong  —  in  shadow.  But  man's 
guilt,  the  cross  of  Christ,  and  the  judgment-bar 


HOW   TO    AID    THE   SAILOR.  83 

bring  out  from  the  canvas,  as  if  there  were  only  eter 
nity  beyond. 

The  sailor  prefers  to  meet  the  dread  truths  of  Rev 
elation  as  he  would  meet  the  rocks  of  ocean,  not  be 
neath  the  wave  but  above  it,  where  he  may  be  ap 
prised  of  the  danger  before  he  is  wrecked.  He  is 
open  to  these  truths  :  he  is  not  a  philosopher  to  be 
reached  only  through  his  intellect.  All  the  sensibil 
ities  of  his  ardent  nature  are  so  many  avenues  of  ap 
proach. 

Through  these,  we  can  cast  pure  or  adulterated 
metals  into  the  naming  alembic  of  his  soul.  There 
are  with  him,  as  with  all  men,  moments  when  moral 
repulsion  seems  suspended,  and  when  truth  may 
reach  his  heart  with  the  suddenness  of  the  flashing- 
sun's  daguerreotype  impression.  That  image,  if  you 
can  but  seize  the  favorable  moment,  though  momen 
tary  in  its  production,  will  remain,  and  all  its  lines 
will  be  found  distinct  and  legible,  when  the  light  of 
eternity  shall  play  upon  the  tablet. 

Such  are  some  of  the  methods  by  which  we  can 
benefit  the  sailor,  physically  and  morally.  If  we 
cannot  pour  milk  and  honey  into  his  cup,  we  can 
pour  truth  into  his  mind  ;  if  we  cannot  quench  the 
thirst  which  parches  his  lips,  we  can  relieve  the 
drought  which  withers  his  soul ;  if  we  cannot  calm 
the  storms  around  him,  we  can  lay  the  tempest 
within ;  if  we  cannot  secure  him  the  sympathy  and 
protection  of  man,  we  can  offer  him  the  guardianship 

9 


84  THE   SEA   AND  THE  SAILOR. 

of  God ;  if  we  cannot  lift  him  into  authority,  we  can 
make  him  cheerful  in  a  state  of  obedience ;  if  we 
cannot  take  the  intoxicating  aliment  from  his  sea 
allowance,  we  can  make  him  refuse  to  drink  it. 

If  we  cannot  ward  off  from  him  disease,  we  can  lift 
him  above  the  fear  of  death  ;  if  we  cannot  make  him 
a  philosopher,  we  can  help  to  make  him  a  Christian  ; 
if  we  cannot  confer  upon  him  a  possession  on  eartlf, 
we  can  offer  him  an  inheritance  in  heaven;  if  we 
cannot  make  him  the  associate  of  princes,  we  can 
make  him  a  companion  of  the  saints  in  light.  All 
this,  through  the  divine  assistance,  we  can  do ;  and, 
if  there  be  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repent- 
eth,  this  is  enough. 

Our  duty  and  responsibility,  therefore,  in  reference 
to  the  sailor,  reach  to  the  joys  of  heaven  and  to  the 
agonies  of  hell.  The  disasters  of  unfaithfulness  are 
irretrievable.  If  Christian  philanthropy  abandon 
him,  his  ruin  is  inevitable.  There  are  no  other  in 
fluences  but  those  of  the  Gospel  that  can  save  him. 
If  he  falls  into  the  sea,  he  may  clasp  the  life-buoy 
and  be  rescued ;  but  there  is  a  deep  to  which  no  such 
provision  of  humanity  extends — a  deep  where  the 
signals  of  distress  are  all  unseen,  and  where  eternity 
only  answers  back  the  minute-gun  of  despair. 

Shall  this  be  the  portion  of  the  poor  sailor  ?  Shall 
he,  after  all  the  neglects,  hardships,  and  perils  which 
he  has  endured  here,  lie  dowrn  at  last  in  sorrow  ? 
Shall  he  have  lived  in  exile  from  our  Christian  com- 


THE   DUTY    OF   THE   CHUKCH.  85 

munities,  to  be  exiled  at  last  from  heaven?  Shall  he 
escape  from  his  last  wreck  here,  to  be  wrecked  again 
and  forever,  when  heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  sea? 

Oh !  if  wrongs  could  fit  the  soul  for  the  presence  of 
its  Maker  ;  if  cruelties  endured  here  could  win  hap 
piness  hereafter,  the  sailor  need  not  be  without  hope ! 
But  the  laws  of  our  moral  being  cannot  be  changed, 
or*  the  requirements  of  infinite  rectitude  set  aside. 
The  pure  in  heart  only  can  see  God ;  and  that  moral 
purity  is  never  the  natural  consequence  of  moral 
wrong.  Oppression  drives  even  the  wise  man  mad  ; 
how  much  more  the  fool,  which  all  men  are  until  re 
generated  by  grace ! 

The  Church  must,  therefore,  be  the  friend  of  the 
sailor,  the  advocate  of  his  rights,  his  patron  under 
injuries,  the  stern  rebuker  of  his  wrongs.  She  must 
pity  him  when  others  reproach,  pray  for  him  when 
others  denounce,  cling  to  him  when  others  forsake, 
and  never  abandon  him,  even  though  he  should 
abandon  himself.  That  love  which  never  w^earies, 
that  affection  which  never  forsakes,  have  rescued 
thousands  whom  retributive  justice  would  have  de 
livered  over  to  hopeless  misery  and  crime.  Many  a 
sainted  spirit,  ere  it  winged  its  way  to  heaven,  has 
cast  on  erring  youth  a  chain  of  light  and  love  which 
has  brought  its  footsteps  back  to  the  paths  of  life  and 
peace.  The  ocean,  as  well  as  earth,  has  its  moral 
gems,  which  will  one  day  sparkle  in  the  diadem  of 
him  who  has  saved  a  soul  from  death, 


86  THE   SEA   AND   THE   SAILOR. 

There  is  a  loss,  compared  with  which  that  of  life 
is  not  worthy  of  being  named.  From  this  fearful 
loss  we  can  all  do  something  to  save  the  sailor.  We 
have  seen  the  moral  perils  and  hardships  of  his  lot. 
We  know  his  uncomplaining  fortitude,  and  his  gen 
erous  disregard  of  danger ;  we  know  his  weaknesses, 
his  sins,  and  his  sorrows.  He  is  a  noble  being,  but 
in  ruins.  It  is  for  us  to  recover  him,  to  strengthen 
him  in  the  right,  and  to  guard  him  against  the  wrong. 
He  is  the  child  of  impulse,  the  creature  of  circum 
stance  ;  and  it  is  our  duty  to  see  that  these  eventful 
influences  are  not  fatal.  He  will  repay  this  care  in 
his  gratitude,  his  reformation,  and  his  prayers.  Then 
give  him  a  helping  hand.  He  would  spring  from 
deck  or  rock,  amid  sweeping  sea  or  breaker's  foam, 
to  save  you  ;  save  HIM,  then,  from  perils  worse  than 
those  of  a  watery  grave. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SEA, 


WE  dropped  our  loaded  net  in  quest  of  shells 
Among  the  tideless  caverns  of  the  sea — 

Those  coral  grottoes,  where  the  mermaid  dwells 
And  charms  the  naiads  with  her  minstrelsy — 

And  "  lifting  in,"  found  on  its  dripping  comb, 

What  brought  to  all  the  sweetest  thoughts  of  home  : 


n. 
A  golden  ringlet ! — fair,  and  soft,  and  flowing 

As  on  a  living  brow — once  near  an  eye 
That  flashed  with  light  and  love — nor  faintly  showing 

Dimness  or  stain  upon  its  glossy  dye. 
It  seemed  as  if  it  had  by  stealth  been  taken 
From  one  who  slept,  and  in  a  breath  might  waken. 

in. 

Would  that  she  might  awake !  but  no,  the  seal 
Which  death  has  dimly  set,  may  not  be  broken, 

Nor  can  a  look  or  line  henceforth  reveal 
Of  all  once  worshipped  there  one  tender  token. 

And  yet  we  linger  near — and  half  believe 

'Tis  some  delusive  dream  o'er  which  we  grieve. 


88  A   TALE   OF   THE   SEA. 

IV. 

Oh  that  this  fair-haired  tenant  of  the  grave 
Could  but  one  moment  reappear  to  light ; 

And  bless  the  living  with  the  look  she  gave 

E'er  death  had  thrown  its  still  and  starless  night 

Upon  her  radiant  features — but,  alas  ! 

She  sleeps  beyond  that  boundary  none  repass. 

v. 

No  more  on  her  will  beam  the  smile  of  love, 
Nor  voice  of  parent,  brother,  sister,  friend, 

Or  aught  of  all  the  accents  wont  to  move 

Her  heart  to  gladness,  on  her  dream  descend  : 

No  more  the  breaking  morn  or  purpling  eve, 

Or  thought  of  home  her  spirit  glad  or  grieve. 


Still  at  her  father's  hearth  the  lisping  child 
Will  oft  repeat  in  free,  unconscious  gladness, 

His  sister's  name — wondering  that  those  who  smiled 
At  that  loved  sound,  now  look  in  silent  sadness, 

Giving  his  artless  questions  no  reply, 

Except  a  storting  tear  or  deep-drawn  sigh. 

VII. 

How  came  she  to  her  solitary  grave  ? 

By  treachery's  wile,  or  grief,  or  wan  disease  ? 
By  gale,  or  wreck,  or  pirate's  flashing  glave  ? 

Where  was  her  home — and  who  her  kindred  ? — these 
Quick,  melancholy  questions,  ne'er  will  be 
Solved  by  the  incommunicable  sea, 


A   TALE   OF   THE   SEA.  89 

VIII. 

A  pirate  once,  while  in  his  dungeon  lying, 

To  him  who  shrived  his  guilty  soul,  confessed, 

That  on  the  wave  o'er  which  our  flag  was  flying, 

Those  deeds  were  done  which  now  his  conscience  pressed ; 

And  'mid  the  many  then  consigned  to  slaughter, 

Were  two — an  old  man  and  his  only  daughter. 


IX. 

The  latter  was  so  young,  so  sweetly  fair, 
The  pirate-crew,  in  melting  mood,  agreed 

Her  tender  years  should  not  thus  early  share 
The  death  to  which  her  father  was  decreed. 

This  sentence  passed — the  parent  bade  a  wild 

And  last  adieu  to  his  despairing  child. 


x. 

His  eye  was  cast  to  Heaven  in  silent  prayer, 
Then  to  his  daughter,  as  he  walked  the  plank  ; 

No  word  of  weakness  broke  from  his  despair, 

As  through  the  parted  waves  his  white  locks  sank, 

And  far  above  the  circling  eddies'  close, 

One  low,  deep  moan  in  bubbling  anguish  rose. 


XI. 

But  fear  is  ever  with  the  guilty — they 
Who  sought  to  save,  saw  in  that  timid  child 

Their  strong  accusing  angel — they  could  slay, 
And  wade  in  blood — but  one  so  undefiled, 

So  free  of  all  that  virtue  ever  feared, 

With  every  glance  their  throbbing  eyeballs  seared. 


90  A  TALE   OF   THE   SEA. 


xn. 

She  read  her  fate  in  that  dejected  air, 

That  meditative,  melancholy  cast 
Of  countenance  which  men  will  sometimes  wear, 

When  they  perceive  their  destiny  has  passed 
To  deeds  which  all  their  sympathies  disown — 
'Tis  nature,  speaking  in  an  under-tone  ! 

xra. 
As  round  their  victim  closed  the  pirate  ring, 

A  sudden  tremor  shook  her  airy  frame; 
Sorrow  for  her  had  no  new  pang  to  bring, 

But  when  a  whisper  breathed  her  father's  name, 
Quick  o'er  her  soft,  transparent  features  spread 
The  pale  and  pulseless  aspect  of  the  dead. 


XIV. 

And  to  the  deck  she  fell— as  falls  a  bird 
Smitten  on  high  by  some  electric  stroke ; 

While  through  the  savage  crew  no  whispered  word, 
Or  hurried  step,  the  breathless  silence  broke : 

But  each,  with  shrinking  aspect,  eyed  the  rest, 

As  if  some  secret  sin  his  soul  oppressed. 

xv. 

But  he  to  whom  the  headsman's  evil  lot 
Had  fallen,  still  his  fearful  work  delayed, 

And  stood  as  one  arrested  near  the  spot 

Where  he  had  some  confiding  friend  betrayed, — 

One  whose  unquiet  ghost  in  piteous  plight 

Now  slowly  rose  to  his  bewildered  sight. 


A   TALE   OF  THE   SEA.  91 


XVI. 

Amid  the  ring,  he  whose  commanding  air 
And  eye  of  sternness  well  bespoke  him  chief, 

Rushed  to  the  child  so  statue-like  and  fair — 
'Twas  not  to  save  or  proffer  short  relief, 

But  cast  into  the  sea,  ere  conscious  breath 

Might  break  this  swoon,  and  give  a  pang  to  death. 

XVII. 

An  idle  pity ! — her  pure  soul  had  fled ; 

And  as  he,  bending,  raised  her  nerveless  form 
Pale  o'er  his  brawny  arm,  the  drooping  head 

Lay  as  a  lily  bowed  beneath  the  storm  ; 
While  o'er  her  features  fell  the  corsair's  tear, 
As  he  consigned  her  to  a  watery  bier. 


XVIII. 

Perchance  the  glossy  ringlet  which  the  sea 
Yielded  to  our  deep  search,  once  lightly  rolled 

O'er  that  fair  brow — but  this  deep  mystery 

Nor  breeze,  nor  breaking  wave,  will  e'er  unfold : 

Yet  fancy  still  the  flowing  lock  will  trace 

To  that  once  known  and  long-remembered  face. 

XIX. 

And  when  the  last  great  trump  shall  thrill  the  grave, 
And  earth's  unnumbered  myriads  reappear, 

She,  too,  will  hear  the  summons,  'neath  the  wave 
That  now  in  silence  wraps  her  sunless  bier ; 

And,  coming  forth,  in  timid  meekness  bowed, 

Unfold  the  tongueless  secrets  of  her  shroud. 


A    TALE   OF   THE   SEA. 


XX. 

How  darkly  changed  this  world  since  that  first  hour 
When  o'er  its  brightness  sung  the  morning  stars ! 

Time,  care,  and  death's  dark  footsteps  had  no  power 
Upon  its  beauty :  man,  who  madly  mars 

His  Maker's  works,  has  swept  it  with  a  flood 

Of  orphans'  tears,  and  deluged  it  with  blood. 

XXI. 

It  has  become  a  Golgotha,  where  lie 

The  bleaching  bones  of  nations ;— - every  wave 

Breaks  on  a  shore  of  skulls — and  every  sigh 
The  low  wind  murmurs  forth,  seems  as  it  gave 

This  mournful  tribute,  unconfined  and  deep 

To  millions,  for  whom  man  has  ceased  to  weep. 

xxn. 

It  is  a  dim  and  shadowy  sepulchre, 
In  which  the  living  and  the  dead  become 

One  common  brotherhood — and  yet  the  stir 
And  sting  of  serpent-passion,  and  the  hum 

Of  jocund  life,  survive  with  but  a  breath 

Between  this  reckless  revelry  and  death. . 


xxra. 

It  is  a  rolling  tomb,  rumbling  along 

In  gloom  and  darkness  through  the  shud'ring  spheres, 
And  filled  with  death  and  life,  and  wail  and  song, 

Laughter  and  agony,  and  jests  and  tears ; 
And — save  its  heartless  mirth  and  ceaseless  knell — 
Wearing  a  ghastly,  glimmering  type  of  hell ! 


A   TALE   OF   THE   SEA.  03 

XXIV. 

When  woman  dies,  'tis  as  the  silent  leaf 
The  forests  drop — the  boughs  wave  on  the  same — 

The  dew-drops,  nature's  seeming  tears  of  grief, 
The  young  Aurora  dries  with  her  first  flame; 

While  that  poor  leaf,  where*'er  its  grave  may  be, 

Lies  unremembered  in  the  wild-wood's  glee. 


xxv. 

Thus  perish  all — except  the  honored  few — 
The  great  in  Arms,  Religion,  Letters,  Art — 

The  urns  of  those  the  tears  of  crowds  bedew ; 
And  yet  that  worth  which  fires  the  nation's  heart, 

Beneath  a  MOTHER'S  faithful  culture  grew — 

She  held  the  bow  from  which  the  arrow  flew. 


NOTES  ON  FRANCE  AND  ITALY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  1 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart, 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 
Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

SHKLLKY. 

CRUISING  AFTER  HIBERNATING NOTES  OF  THE    LAST  BIRD REMINISCENCE 

OF  MARIA GRUDGE  AGAINST  THE  LADY  ABBESS FIRST  DAY  OUT HURRY- 

SKURRY  IN  CABIN  AND  WARD-ROOM THE  WATCH-BOY  ALOFT WE  AN 
CHOR  IN  TOULON THE  SENTENCE  OF  QUARANTINE PRACTICAL  ABSURDI 
TY  OF  ITS  REGULATIONS A  HINT  FOR  RESTORATIONISTS THE  ARSENAL 

OF  TOULON NAVAL  DISCIPLINE  OF  THE  FRENCH SUBURBS  OF  THE    CITY 

HYERES MASSILLON A  NUT  FOR    SOCIALISTS INQUISITORS    OF    THE 

CUSTOM-HOUSE — OVERHAULING  THE  DEAD — A  WILLING  FAREWELL  TO 
TOULON. 

THE  winter  had  passed,  the  time  of  the  singing  of 
birds  had  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  was  heard 
in  the  land ;  when,  as  if  obeying  these  awakening  in 
stincts  of  nature,  we  weighed  our  anchors  in  the  frig 
ate  Constellation,  from  the  safe  bed  in  which  they  had 


96  FRANCE  AND  FRENCHMEN. 

long  been  planted ;  and,  in  company  with  the  Flag- 
Ship,  which  had  fast  caught  the  moving  infection, 
floated  quietly  from  the  harbor  of  Mahon ;  with  rec 
ollections  that  endeared  the  past,  and  anticipations 
that  brightened  the  future. 

The  last  voice  I  heard  was  that  of  a  bird  singing 
from  a  tree  that  shades  an  extreme  cliff,  and  where 
it  would  seem  as  if  the  little  warbler  had  come  to 
give  us  his  parting  cheer.  I  admired  that  bird  for 
several  reasons :  for  its  plumage — it  was  gay  as  hope : 
for  its  voice — it  was  full  of  sweetest  melody :  for 
its  courage — it  was  one  of  the  few  that  had  escaped 
the  shot  and  snares  of  our  wicked  pastimes  :  for  its 
spirit  of  forgiveness — we  had  been  all  winter  picking 
the  bones  of  its  fellows,  and  perhaps  had  deprived  it 
of  its  vernal  mate ;  yet  now  it  came  forth  to  breathe 
its  farewell,  with  the  forgiving,  clinging  affection  of 
the  female  heart  for  the  one  no  longer  worthy  of  her 
love  and  confidence. 

If  the  doctrine  of  the  Samian  Sage  be  true,  I  would 
ask  that  at  death  my  spirit  may  pass  into  the  form  of 
such  a  beautiful  bird  as  this.  Not  that  I  would,  in 
that  event,  sing  to  those  who  had  plotted  my  death, 
but  I  would  fly  to  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara,  and 
perching  close  to  the  grated  window  of  the  imprison 
ed  Maria,  relieve  with  my  notes  the  solitude  of  her 
cell ;  and  so  sweet  and  impassioned  should  be  the 
strain  I  would  sing,  that  the  wondering  nun  should 
every  night  murmur  in  her  rosy  dream, — 


MARIA    AND   THE    ABBESS.  97 

A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  says  a  thousand  things, 
And  seems  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 

And  if  the  lady  abbess  came,  as  she  undoubtedly 
would,  to  drive  me  away,  I  would  sing  a  note  in  her 
ear  more  fearful  than  that  of  the  death-watch  in  the 
chamber  of  the  dying.  For,  aside  from  the  mis 
chievous  energy  with  which  she  exercises  her  abbati- 
cal  functions,  she  has  a  face  and  figure  that  can  fear 
no  changes  which  may  betide  humanity,  and  which 
would  justify  the  expenses  and  pains  of  a  journey  to 
the  temple  of  Helen  at  Therapne. 

I  shall  never  forgive  her  for  thrusting  her  ugly 
hand  between  my  lips  and  the  fingers  of  the  beautiful 
Maria,  just  as  I  was  taking  my  last  leave.  She  might, 
at  least,  have  accorded  me  this  final  and  delicate  in 
dulgence  of  affection,  after  having  accepted  of  me, 
with  evident  emotions  of  delight,  a  dozen  of  the  best 
Virginia  hams  that  ever  wrent  across  the  Atlantic. 
But  I  have  ever  observed  that  a  woman  excessively 
ugly  is,  usually,  excessively  perverse.  It  would  seem 
as  if  she  intended  to  retaliate  the  wrongs  of  nature 
indiscriminately  upon  her  unoffending  species. 

jSTo  one  of  my  feminine  readers,  I  am  sure,  will 
take  an  exception  to  this  remark,  or  construe  it  into 
a  personality,  for,  whatever  facts  might  justify  her 
own  good  opinion,  will  prevent  her  ranking  herself 
with  the  class  to  which  it  refers.  As  for  the  abbess 
of  the  Convent  of  Santa  Clara,  I  may  yet,  perhaps, 

•5 


OS  FRANCE   AND   FRENCHMEN. 

have  an  opportunity  of  returning  her  ungrateful  ef 
frontery  ;  for  if  we  drop  anchor  at  Madeira  on  our 
return  home,  it  may  not  be  my  fault  if  she  has  not 
one  the  less  nun  on  whom  to  rivet  the  chain  of  her 
sanctimonious  tyranny. 

The  morning  of  our  first  day  out  was  peculiarly 
brilliant  and  serene,  promising  us  a  quiet  and  pleas 
ant  passage  ;  but  towards  evening  the  wind  chopped 
about  directly  in  our  teeth,  and  suddenly  assumed 
the  dark  and  formidable  frown  of  a  gale,  obliging  us 
to  take  in  sail,  and  heaving  against  us  a  heavy  head 
sea. 

It  was  not  less  diverting  than  melancholy  to  wit 
ness  the  effect  produced  by  the  rolling  and  plunging 
of  our  ship.  We  had  come  out  sleek  as  if  born  and 
cradled  in  a  band-box ;  not  a  bit  of  lint  disfigured 
the  coat  or  pantaloon  ;  not  a  soil  dimmed  the  reflect- 
.ing  surface  of  the  cravat;  and  the  smooth  corners  of 
the  shirt-collar,  peering  above  the  carefully  adjusted 
stock,  shot  forward  like  the  ears  of  a  rabbit,  listening 
to  some  rumpling  sound  ahead,  when  lo !  a  saucy 
wave  broke  over  our  bow,  sweeping  the  whole  length 
of  the  ship,  and  all  this  starch  and  gloss  went  down 
just  as  I  have  seen  the  peck-feathers  of  an  old  family 
rooster,  hieing  from  a  drenching  shower  to  his  covert. 

Nor  was  the  scene  below  less  afflictive,  for  every 
thing  that  had  not  been  previously  secured,  was  now 
moving  about,  all  hurry-skurry,  some  sliding  along, 
but  more  tumbling  round,  "like  ambition  overleaping 


THE   WATCH-BOY   ALOFT.  99 


itself."  My  air-port,  by  some  mistake,  had  been  left 
open  :  the  sea  had  now  made  a  tunnel  of  it ;  and  my 
state-room  door  being  shut,  my  wardrobe  and  library, 
and — horribile  dictu — my  manuscripts,  also,  were 
drifting  about  in  a  most  disastrous  and  drowning 
condition. 

My  only  anxiety  was  to  save  the  latter,  forecasting 
how  much  would  be  irreparably  lost  to  the  world  in 
their  destruction !  I  thought  of  the  Alexandrian 
Library,  and  knowing  water  to  be  as  fatal  as  fire, 
seized  at  once  these  invaluable  treasures,  but  was  not 
a  little  mortified  and  vexed  in  finding  them  the  most 
light  and  buoyant  things  in  my  apartment :  even  the 
web  of  an  unfortunate  spider  sunk  at  their  side. 

~No  serious  disaster,  however,  happened  to  the  ship  ; 
but  a  watch-boy  posted  aloft  fell  sound  asleep,  even 
while  the  masts  were  sweeping  through  nearly  half 
of  a  frightful  circle.  Oh,  sleep — 

Wilt  tliou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude,  imperious  surge, — 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
„  Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deafening  clamors  in  the  slippery  shrouds, — 
That  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes ; 
Canst  thou,  oh,  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude, 
And  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night 
Deny  it  to  a  king  ? 


100  FRANCE  AND  FRENCHMEN. 

The  wind  subsided  the  next  morning,  and  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  succeeding  we  anchored  in  Tou 
lon.  We  were  preparing  to  go  on  shore,  when  an 
officer,  with  a  most  grim,  uncompromising  visage, 
such  as  would  befit  a  man  whose  business  it  was 
to  announce  the  fatal  sentence  to  condemned  crimi 
nals,  approached  our  ship,  and  inquired  where  we 
were  from,  and,  on  being  told,  informed  us  that  we 
must  perform  a  quarantine  of  ten  days. 

This  was  enough  to  upset  the  patience  of  a  Job, 
or  tip  the  equanimity  of  a  Turk.  We  had  merely 
come  over  from  Mahon,  a  place  perfectly  healthy, 
and  known  to  be  so,  and  had  on  board  at  this  time 
scarcely  a  case  of  even  ordinary  indisposition,  cer 
tainly  nothing  more  alarming,  or  contagious,  than  a 
toothache,  or  broken  finger,  and  yet  we  were  plunged 
into  a  quarantine  as  if  we  had  come  from  some  Gol 
gotha,  freighted  with  reeking  skulls. 

But  there  is  as  little  use  in  scolding  now  as  there 
was  in  quarrelling  then.  Men  who  have  the  least 
reason  for  their  conduct,  are  the  last  to  be  influenced 
by  argument.  We  tested  this  truth  still  more  thor 
oughly  on  a  subsequent  occasion ;  our  ship  had  come 
to  Marseilles,  and  we  had  freely  communicated  with 
the  place ;  after  spending  about  a  week  in  mingled 
concourse  with  its  inhabitants,  a  party  of  us  wt'iit 
over  by  land  to  Toulon,  where  it  was  \\vll  known 
who  we  were,  and  from  whence  we  came :  for  not  a 
ni<»u>L'Mir.-  in  France  without  bt-i  HIT  narrowly  \vutclu-il ; 


ABSURDITIES    OF   QUARANTINE.  101 

and  it  is  said  that  the  appearance  of  a  strange  baboon 
on  her  Spanish  frontier  was  once  telegraphed  to  the 
Police  at  Paris,  and  a  detachment  of  the  gendarmerj 
sent  out  to  watch  the  motions  of  the  ambiguous 
stranger. 

In  the  mean  time  our  ship  came  round  to  this 
port,  and  was  put  in  quarantine  !  We  appeared  be 
fore  the  magistrates  of  the  Health  Office,  and  told 
them  that  we  were  officers  attached  to  the  Constella 
tion,  and  had  left  her  at  Marseilles  freely  communi 
cating  with  the  shore,  and  that  we  had  ourselves 
come  over  uninterruptedly  by  land,  bringing  con 
tagion  in  our  own  skirts  if  there  was  any.  But  the 
only  reply  was  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder — a  French 
man's  last  and  only  resort  when  confounded  in  argu 
ment  ;  and  our  ship  had  to  perform  her  week's  quar 
antine,  merely  because  the  sanitary  regulations  of 
Marseilles  had  not  exacted  the  penalty.  "We  might 
laugh  at  such  a  farce  as  this  were  it  not  so  excessively 
annoying  that  the  most  ludicrous,  blundering  incon 
sistency,  and  otherwise  burlesque  and  grotesque  as 
tuteness  would  fail  to  provoke  a  smile. 

I  have  now  done  with  quarantines ;  nor  will  I 
trouble  the  reader  with  the  details  of  any  more, 
though  they  should  come  thick  and  fast  as  the 
plagues  of  Egypt.  I  detest  the  whole  system,  and 
only  wish  that  every  species  of  moral  wrong  wore  in 
my  eyes  an  equally  repulsive  and  abhorred  aspect. 
1  wonder  our  universal  fiestorationists,  instead  of 


102  FRANCE   AND   FRENCHMEN. 

transporting  a  spirit  at  once  from  a  place  of  utter 
pollution  to  one  of  immaculate  purity,  never  thought 
of  putting  him  in  quarantine,  not  only  as  a  further 
punishment,  but  as  a  salutary  precaution  on  the  part 
of  Heaven !  It  would  have  a  greater  check  on  me 
than  any  thing  which  now  enters  into  their  purgato 
rial  fiction ;  and,  I  must  say,  of  all  fictions  that  ever 
yet  insulted  the  common  sense  of  mankind  in  the 
shape  of  a  religious  creed,  I  consider  this  the  most 
unqualifiedly  absurd. 

As  if  the  companionship  of  devils  and  a  com 
munion  with  the  damned,  could  fit  a  man  for  the  fel 
lowship  of  angels  and  of  the  "  spirits  of  just  men 
made  perfect !"  As  if  the  blasphemies  of  hell  could 
attune  his  spirit  to  the  seraphic  harmonies  of  heaven  ! 
Let  him  gather  to  himself  all  the  sanctity,  virtue, 
and  meekness  that  ever  was,  or  ever  can,  without  a 
contradiction  of  terms,  be  acquired  in  that  region  of 
cursing,  hate,  and  agony,  it  cannot  fit  him  for  heav 
en,  or  by  any  conceivable  possibility  render  him 
happy  if  admitted  there. 

He  would  be  a  stranger  among  strangers ;  abash 
ed  at  his  own  conscious  unfitness  for  the  place, 
he  would  fain  hide  himself  from  the  pure  presence 
of  the  redeemed  and  holy.  Heaven  might  shake 
with  the  swelling  anthem  of  the  blessed,  but  not 
a  chord  in  his  breast  would  vibrate :  he  would  stand 
amid  the  transcendent  glories  of  that  upper  world, 
lone  and  desolate  as  a  tree  scathed  and  riven  by 


ROYAL    ARSENAL    OF   TOULON.  103 

lightning,  amid  the  living  verdures  of  an  earthly 
landscape. 

I  have  generally  refrained  from  topics  of  a  reli 
gious  nature,  not  from  a  want  of  interest  in  them, 
but  for  reasons  which  I  shall  assign,  if  need  be,  in 
another  place.  I  do  not  seek  an  exemption  on  this 
or  any  other  subject  from  a  reasonable  responsibility, 
or  conceive  that,  because  I  am  four  thousand  miles 
from  home,  I  am  any  the  less  accountable  to  the 
religious  and  moral  sense  of  the  country  where  I  was 
born,  and  where  I  hope  to  die.  ISTor  will  I,  as  some 
of  the  antagonists  of  religion  have  done,  charge  a 
masked  battery,  and  engage  another  to  fire  it  off 
when  I  am  myself  safely  under  the  shelter  of  the 
grave.  Infidelity  has  often  been  driven  to  this 
miserable  shift,  thus  developing  two  of  those  quali 
ties  which  most  offensively  disgrace  and  disfigure 
human  nature — a  deep,  disingenuous  malignity,  and 
a  skulking  cowardice. 

We  were  now  on  shore  in  Toulon,  casting  about  to 
see  what  it  might  contain  worthy  of  the  pains  we 
had  taken.  The  Arsenal  has  in  effective  operation 
all  the  intentions  of  its  gigantic  plan ;  and  exhibits  a 
mass  of  waiting  force,  happily  at  present  in  a  state 
of  masterly  inactivity,  worthy  of  the  interests  which 
look  to  it  for  protection,  and  worthy,  too,  of  its  con 
nection  with  the  spot  where  Bonaparte  first  im 
pressed  the  terrors  of  his  genius  on  the  astonished 
forces  of  England. 


104  FRANCE   AND   FRENCHMEN. 

The  French  excel  in  the  model  of  their  ships,  in 
every  thing  which  belongs  to  the  science  of  naval 
architecture  ;  and  if  they  could  only  fight  a  ship  as 
well  as  they  can  build  her,  their  flag  would  now  be 
flying  over  many  a  deck  that  has  passed  to  the 
hands  of  the  stranger.  Their  failure  lies  not  in  a 
want  of  courage,  but  in  the  absence  of  that  thorough, 
rigid,  dove-tailed  discipline  which  nearly  divests  the 
moral  mechanism  of  a  ship  of  individual  volition. 

This  surrender  of  private  will  and  judgment  is  not 
so  indispensable  to  success  in  an  engagement  on 
land ;  for  there  a  man  hacks  away  more  for  himself: 
he  has  more  scope  for  that  shouting,  cutting,  and 
slashing  enthusiasm,  which  in  such  a  situation  per 
haps  more  than  compensates  for  the  absence  of  con 
sentaneous,  constrained  action  ;  but  which,  on  board 
a  man-of-war,  by  the  derangements  it  would  intro 
duce  into  the  consecutive  means  whereby  each  gun 
is  to  be  discharged,  and  each  evolution  of  the  ship 
effected,  would,  perhaps  more  than  any  thing  else, 
contribute  to  her  capture. 

This  is  the  reason  why  the  French,  who  can  con 
quer  on  the  land,  are  defeated  at  sea.  The  spirit 
which  covers  them  with  laurels  in  their  military^ 
plunders  them  of  their  flag  in  their  ncuval  engage 
ments.  Divest  an  army  composed  of  Frenchmen  of 
that  personal,  private,  reckless  enthusiasm,  which 
blindly  mingles  its  own  impulses  with  the  national 
honor;  which  would  rush  with  as  little  hesitancy 


BIRTH-PLACE   OF   MASSILLON.  105 

over  the  breast  of  a  fallen  friend  as  the  body  of  a 
foe,  and  which  cuts  its  own  way  to  preferment  and 
plunder,  and  you  would  deprive  it  of  all  its  efficiency 
— you  wrould  take  from  it  the  very  sinews  of  its 
strength — you  would  reduce  it  to  an  inert,  impotent 
mass. 

The  harbor  of  Toulon  affords  a  quiet  and  safe  an 
chorage,  while  the  sweeping  lines  of  its  shore  swell 
into  lofty  and  picturesque  elevations.  The  town 
itself  has  a  forbidding,  heavy  appearance  given  it  by 
the  dull  character  of  its  architecture,  and  the  massive 
military  works  which  render  it  impregnable.  The 
streets  are  narrow  and  foul,  but  their  darkness  and 
dirt  are  relieved  by  a  broad,  brilliant  quay,  two  or 
three  comfortable  hotels,  the  complaisant  demeanor 
of  the  inhabitants,  and,  above  all,  by  the  sweet,  re 
freshing  retreats  which  the  adjacent  country  presents. 

Among  the  latter,  Hyeres  takes  the  precedence.  It 
has,  it  is  true,  no  antiquities  to  stir  your  imagination, 
although  it  used  to  be  the  spot  from  which  pilgrims 
to  the  Holy  Land  took  their  departure ;  but  it  is  filled 
with  ambrosial  shade,  and  it  contains,  among  other 
habitations,  that  in  which  Massillon  was  born  ;  he 
who  stood  like  a  warning  angel  in  the  voluptuous 
court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  Here,  also,  among 
more  recent  fabrics,  stands  the  beautiful  Chateau  of 
Baron  Stultz,  one  of  the  very  few  who  ever  earned  a 
title  of  nobility  by  the  dexterity  and  industry  of  the 
needle. 


106  FRANCE   AND    FRENCHMEN. 

Some  affect  to  sneer  at  his  ribbons  ;.  but  I  do  not 
see  why  a  tailor  has  not  as  good  a  right  to  cut  out  a 
baronetcy  with  shears  as  a  trooper  with  his  sword ; 
for,  of  the  two,  it  is  vastly  the  more  peaceable  mode 
of  getting  a  title  :  it  does  infinitely  less  injury  to  so 
ciety,  and,  after  all,  displays  more  skill ;  for  it  is 
much  easier  to  put  a  sword  through  a  man's  body 
than  to  nicely  fit  a  coat  to  his  back.  None  of  this 
partiality  therefore ;  let  every  man  become  a  baron, 
a  marquis,  or  a  duke  in  his  own  way ;  no  longer  con 
fine  these  brilliant  baubles  to  the  successful  sabre  of 
a  cut-throat,  or  the  lineality  of  one  incapable  perhaps 
of  understanding  any  thing  else. 

We  now  returned  on  board  ship,  and  with  much 
less  annoyance  than  some  of  us  experienced  in  get 
ting  on  shore ;  for  the  agents  of  the  custom-house 
here  are  extremely  rigorous  in  the  discharge  of  their 
inquisitorial  trust.  If  a  man  has  not  an  epaulet  on 
his  shoulder,  or  a  cockade  on  his  hat,  even  his  pock 
ets  will  hardly  escape  the  dishonor  of  a  search.  Nor 
is  the  inspection  always  confined  to  the  living ;  it 
sometimes  extends  to  the  dead.  We  had  occasion  to 
bury  one  of  our  crew  here,  and  as  we  came  on  shore 
to  pay  him  this  last  sad  office,  his  coffin  was  uncere 
moniously  opened  to  ascertain  that  it  contained  no 
contraband  goods ! 

We  always  knew  the  French  to  be  an  extremely 
shrewd  and  inquisitive  people,  but  we  did  not  sup 
pose  they  would  ever  carry  their  researches  into  the 


THE   CUSTOM-HOUSE   AXD    COFFIN.  10  T 

secrets  of  the  grave.  Ah,  Death !  we  have  heard 
thee  accused,  by  some,  of  being  an  inexorable  tyrant 
— by  others,  of  being  an  indiscriminate  leveller  ;  but 
never  before,  by  saint  or  savage,  have  we  heard  thee 
accused  of  being  a  smuggler !  And  even  if  thou 
wert  such,  what  couldst  thou  want  of  aught  that  our 
poor  ship  contained?  Wast  thou  in  quest  of  pea- 
jackets  and  tarpaulins  ?  But  thy  sailors  never  go  on 
watch :  each  in  his  hammock  still  slumbers  as  he 
laid  himself  down.  Or  wast  thou  in  need  of  charts 
and  quadrants  ?  But  thy  ships  never  leave  their 
moorings ;  each  rots  down  piecemeal  in  its  own 
berth.  Or  was  it  thy  desire  to  obtain  Bibles  and 
Hyrnn-books  ?  But  there  is  no  worshipping  as 
sembly  in  thy  dominion,  and  the  Preacher's  voice  is 
never  heard  there. 

Ah,  Death !  thou  art  falsely  suspected  and  basely 
dishonored  by  the  Frenchman! — by  him,  too,  who 
should  ever  regard  thee  with  the  most  indulgent 
feelings  ;  for  he  has  crowded  millions  of  corses  into 
thy  domain.  From  the  chilling  snows  of  Russia  to 
the  burning  sands  of  Egypt,  he  has  sunk  his  victims 
into  thy  pale  realm,  thick  as  the  quails  that  fell  for 
food  around  the  famishing  tents  of  wandering  Is 
rael. 

I  had  intended  to  sketch  a  few  of  the  most  easily 
detected  features  in  the  domestic  habits  of  the  people 
of  Toulon,  but  this  affair  of  the  coffin — which  will  bo 
discredited  by  many,  but  which  can  be  established 


108  FRANCE   AND   FRENCHMEN. 

by  the  oath  of  fifty  witnesses — has  so  disaffected  me 
with  the  place,  I  leave  it  without  further  comment. 
I  only  hope  it  may  not  be  my  mournful  lot  to  die 
here,  to  be  insulted  in  my  shroud.  The  most  deeply 
wounding  and  irreparable  wrong,  is  that  which 
falsely  suspects  the  dying ;  and  the  most  mean  and 
dishonorable  distrust,  is  that  which  looks  for  selfish, 
sinister  concealment  beneath  the  simple  obsequies  of 
the  dead. 

Man  is  a  curious  thing — a  medley  strange, 
Of  all  concordant  and  discordant  tilings ; 

And  wheresoe'er  you  meet  him,  'mid  the  range 
Of  cringing  vassals  or  the  court  of  kings, 

He  is  the  same,  excepting  his  exterior, 

Which  marks  his  rank  as  menial  or  superior. 

One  time  we  find  him  struggling  after  fame, 
Burning  what  poets  call  the  midnight  taper, 

And  then  we  find  him  writhing  'neath  the  shame 
Of  an  exposure  in  a  public  paj.er ; 

And  lastly,  peaking,  prying,  after  pelf, 

Shrouded  and  hearsed,  and  buried  in  himself. 

And  then  he  falls  in* love,  a  curious  feeling, 

A  kind  of  melancholy  flow  of  soul, 
A  soft  sensation  o'er  his  heart-strings  stealing  ; 

One  which  his  sternest  thoughts  cannot  control — 
A  secret  fountain  gushing  from  his  heart, 
Watering  the  flowers  that  round  its  being  start. 


MYSTEKIES   OF   A   CALM.  109 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 
Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe ; 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

MYSTERIOUS  SAILING  IN  A  CALM SPECULATIONS  OF  THE  TARS A  CHARMED 

SHIP — THE  COURSE  OF  TIME  AN  AUGURY  OF  ETERNITY THE  WAY  OF  THE 

WISE  MAN APPROACH  TO  GENOA THE  CITY  OF  PALACES BLIND  MUSI 
CIAN  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER EFFECT  UPON  THE  CREW THEIR  NOBLE  LIB 
ERALITY MUSIC  OF  THE  OPERA  COMPARED THE  CARLA  FELICE FAN 
TASTIC  ARCHITECTURE  AND  ORNAMENTS  IN  CHURCHES PROTESTANTISM 

AND  ROMANISM  COMPARED AN  EPISODE  ON  YOUNG  DIVINES A  SPRIGHT 
LY  BED-FELLOW PARISIAN  FLEAS  IN  THE  WALTZ TOUR  THROUGH  THE 

PALACES GLIMPSES  OF  THE  PROPRIETORS — RIDDLES  TO  BE  SOLVED. 

A  SIGNAL-GUN  from  the  Flag-Ship  to  get  under  way 
had  been  cheerfully  and  promptly  obeyed,  and  we 
were  now  holding  our  course,  as  well  as  ships  can 
that  have  no  wind,  from  Toulon  for  Genoa.  Yet, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  our  ship  that  never  won  a 
laurel  in  a  breeze,  would  now,  in  a  dead  calm,  log 
several  knots  in  each  watch.  This  apparently  cause 
less  advance  was  an  inexplicable  mystery  then,  and 


110  A   CHARMED   SHIP. 


is  so  still ;  some,  indeed,  ascribed  it  to  an  impercep 
tible  current,  but,  in  that  case,  lying  passive  on  her 
element,  she  would  make  no  progress  through  the 
water,  though  she  might  change  her  relation  to  the 
coast.  Some,  who  were  perhaps  more  imaginative 
than  philosophical,  attributed  it  to  the  impulses  of 
an  aerial  vein,  or  breath,  too  weak  to  produce  any 
visible  effect  on  the  sails,  yet  of  sufficient  strength  to 
move  the  ship. 

The  simple  tar,  who  never  puzzles  himself  with  the 
intricate  relations  of  cause  and  effect,  declared  that 
the  ship  went  ahead  because  it  was  in  her  so  to  do  ; 
and,  in  truth,  I  was  myself  very  much  of  his  opinion. 
A  ship  is  not  like  a  man  who  gives  a  reason  for  his 
deportment ;  she  appears  to  be  actuated  by  some  ir 
responsible  whim,  eome  self-consulting,  independent 
caprice,  that  disregards  the  complexion  of  her  out 
ward  condition.  Under  the  urgencies  of  a  quick 
breeze  she  will  frequently  lie  almost  motionless,  and 
then,  again,  in  a  condition  less  favorable,  as  if  moved 
by  some  impulse  from  within,  she 

" walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life." 

I  have  ever  believed  our  ship  to  be  undei  some 
mysterious  charm,  since  I  saw  her,  without  a  breath 
of  wind,  move  up  in  the  middle  of  the  Tagus,  while 
two  smaller  vessels  nearer  each  shore  were  moving 
down  at  the  same  time  ;  and  I  was  quite  confirmed 
in  this  opinion  when  I  saw  her,  in  the  utter  silence 


AUGURY   FOE   ETERNITY.  Ill 

and  dim  solemnity  of  a  midnight-watch — the  ocean 
lying  still  as  the  slumber  of  the  grave — move  three 
times  around  in  the  same  fearful  circle,  leaving  the 
gaping  track  of  her  keel  as  entire  and  unclosed  as  if 
the  waters  had  lost  their  returning  power,  or  had  been 
converted,  by  the  dark  magic  of  her  drifting  shadow, 
into  substance. 

Those  may  smile  who  will,  at  this  belief  in  a  ship's 
subtle,  innate  source  of  motion ;  but  I  can  assure 
them  it  is  not  more  irrational  and  absurd  than  the 
forms  of  belief  on  which  one-half  mankind  rest  their 
hopes  of  heaven.  I  would  much  sooner  believe  that 
a  ship  may  establish  a  character  for  good  sailing  in 
a  dead  calm,  than  that  a  man,  who  has  been  acting 
the  devil  to  the  verge  of  human  life,  can  then,  as  if 
by  the  force  of  an  upward  glanc'e,  be  transformed 
into  an  angel. 

You  may  as  well  believe  that  a  stream  can  move  on 
half-way  to  the  ocean,  a  current  of  putrid  blackness, 
and  then  flow  the  rest  in  liquid  transparency,  as  to 
suppose  that  the  current  of  our  moral  being,  which 
has  flowed  darkly  and  corruptedly  to  the  edge  of  the 
grave,  can  then  move  on  in  purity  and  brightness. 
As  it  rolled  upon  earth,  we  must  expect  it  to  roll 
through  eternity ! 

I  little  thought  my  wizard  theme  would  lead  me  into 
a  topic  of  such  real  moment.  But  let  those  who  may 
justly  question  its  relevancy  ponder  the  truth  it  con 
tains  :  it  is  never  too  soon  to  forsake  an  error — it  may 


112  ITALY   AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

be  too  late  to  retrieve  it.  The  wisest  man  is  he  who 
leaves  in  his  conduct  through  life  the  least  room  for 
subsequent  regret  and  sorrow.  I  would  blot  these 
lines  as  irrelevant,  did  they  not  spring  from  the  deep 
est  fount  of  my  convictions.  But  I  know  they  in 
volve  truths  that  will  affect  both  reader  and  writer 
when  the  fleeting  interests  of  this  life  appear  only  as 
the  phantoms  of  a  troubled  dream  ;  and  when  many 
of  the  objects  that  may  have  most  enchanted  us  here, 
have  only  that  remembrance  which  must  be  bathed 
in  our  tears.  We  are  born  under  a  cloud,  but  the 
light  that  melts  through  it,  is  sufficient  to  guide  our 
hesitating  steps. 

We  were  now  within  a  few  leagues  of  Genoa,  as 
appeared  from  our  dead-reckoning,  which  was  kept 
as  accurately  as  any  such  precarious  calculation  could 
be  amid  conflicting  currents  and  calms — for  we  had 
no  meridian  sun  to  designate  our  position,  or  promi 
nent  cliff  to  inform  us  of  our  bearings  and  distances. 
These  had  been  lost  us  in  the  opaqueness  of  a  thick- 
stagnant  atmosphere.  We  were,  of  course,  rather  sad 
at  the  thought  of  approaching  the  "  City  of  Palaces," 
and  from  the  sea,  too,  under  circumstances  so  ex 
tremely  unfavorable. 

But,  to  our  most  pleasurable  surprise,  towards 
evening  a  strong  wind,  rushing  from  the  icy  region 
of  the  Alps,  rolled  one  bank  of  clouds  against  another 
till  the  whole  departed,  leaving  Genoa  without  an 
obscuring  veil  upon  its  beauty  and  grandeur.  It 


THE    CITY    OF    PALACES.  113 

stood  there  proudly  ascending  a  circling  acclivity  of 
the  Apennines  :  the  setting  sun  shedding  upon  it  the 
effulgence  of  its  liberated  beams,  the  greeting  birds 
breaking  into  sudden  song,  and  the  green  trees  waving 
their  fresh  leaves  over  tower,  terrace,  and  gayer 
balcony. 

I  thought  when  sailing  up  the  Bay  of  Naples  it 
would  be  impossible  for  any  other  city  or  shore  to 
make  my  heart  beat  so  quickly,  but  here  I  found 
emotions  within  me,  though  less  deep  and  dilated, 
yet  equally  replete  with  delight.  There  was,  indeed, 
no  burning  mount,  with  its  cataract  of  fire,  to  create 
awe — no  disinhumed  remains  of  perished  greatness 
to  awaken  a  bewildering  reverence ;  but  then  here 
were  castled  steeps,  frowning  as  of  old,  to  impress 
respect ;  long  ranges  of  marble  palaces,  whose  builders 
are  in  the  grave,  to  excite  admiring  wonder ;  and  a 
lofty  background,  sprinkled  with  villas,  to  inspire  a 
sentiment  of  security  and  quietude,  and  which  seemed 
as  a  shield  cast  over  the  architectural  magnificence 
of  the  spot. 

Such  appeared  Genoa  as  we  first  saw  it  from  the 
sea  ;  a  nearer  view  may  chasten  the  tone  of  enthusi 
astic  admiration  which  its  first  impressions  have 
awakened.  The  most  enchanting  beauty  can  rarely 
stand  the  test  of  the  thoroughly  informed  eye,  and  I 
have  never  met  with  a  city  without  a  deformity  in 
many  of  its  features. 

Our  anchor  had  scarcely  been  let  go,  when  an  old  man 


Hi  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

and  his  daughter  came  alongside,  and  solicited  permis 
sion  to  come  on  board,  which  was  cheerfully  granted. 
The  father  was  blind,  and  had  found  a  partial  refuge 
from  the  affliction  in  the  music  of  his  violin.  The 
daughter  was  young,  of  a  childlike  bearing,  and  ac 
companied  the  touching  strains  of  the  parent  with  a 
voice  of  expressive  sweetness : 

"  And  she  began  a  long,  low  island  song, 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong." 

The  crew  gathered  around  in  close,  wordless  audi 
ence,  as  if  she  had  been  some  sweet  seraph  delegated 
for  some  inspiring  purpose  to  breathe  here,  for  a  short 
time,  the  melodies  of  a  happier  sphere.  But  as  she 
was  not  an  angel,  and  of  course  not  exempt  from  the 
wants  which  betide  humanity,  our  crew  began  to  cast 
about  how  they  might  best  relieve  the  bereavements 
of  her  condition. 

They  pronounced  it  an  impropriety,  bordering  on 
shame,  that  one  so  young,  so  beautiful,  and  who  could 
sing  so  sweetly,  should  be  left  to  want  any  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life ;  and  immediately  raised  a  sub 
scription  sufficient  to  afford  an  ample  competence, 
for  many  months  to  come,  to  her  and  her  blind  father. 
As  she  floated  off  in  her  light  skiff  towards  the  shore, 
with  a  purse  in  hand  containing  two  hundred  dollars 
in  gold,  the  sailors  watched  her  as  they  would  had 
she  been  a  sweet  cherub  that  had  just  dropped  out  of 
heaven. 


SAILORS   AND   SINGING    GIRL.  115 

There  is  no  being  in  the  world  so  easily  moved  to 
acts  of  charity  as  a  sailor ;  he  will  share  his  last 
penny,  not  only  with  a  needy  shipmate,  but  with  a 
stranger,  with  a  person  he  never  met  before,  and 
never  expects  to  meet  again.  Almost  any  amount 
of  money,  exceeding,  perhaps,  that  due  the  individual 
members  of  the  crew,  might  be  raised  on  board  one 
of  our  ships,  in  behalf  of  a  plain,  simple  object  of 
charity. 

It  is  necessary,  on  such  occasions,  to  limit  them  to 
a  certain  sum,  otherwise  but  few  would  return  home 
with  a  shilling  in  their  pockets.  Though,  in  truth, 
this  would  but  little  affect  their  pecuniary  condition 
three  weeks  after  having  reached  the  shore,  this  being 
usually  a  longer  time  than  is  necessary  for  the  sailor 
to  rid  himself  of  all  his  wages  for  three  years  of  hard 
ship  and  peril. 

Those  of  us  who  fancied  in  ourselves  a  passion  for 
music  of  a  higher  pretension  than  what  flowed  from 
the  lips  of  the  little  girl,  went  on  shore  to  the  Carla 
Felice,  where  we  heard  Madam  Unguer,  in  Anna 
Boleyna — an  opera  in  which  she  displays  the  full 
force  of  her  astonishing  powers.  Her  genius  is  adapted 
to  the  wild,  turbulent,  and  tragical  incidents  of  life  ; 
she  expressed  the  love,  indignation,  despair,  and  con 
scious  innocence  of  Henry's  wife,  with  a  power  and 
pathos  that  reached  every  heart.  Each  motion,  look, 
and  tone,  betrayed  the  grief,  anger,  and  forgiveness 
of  the  royal  victim. 


116  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 


Not  the  sight  of  the  execrable  axe  in  the  Tower  of 
London,  with  which  she  was  beheaded,  affected  me 
half  so  deeply.  The  one  produced  a  dark  revulsion 
of  feeling,  the  other  filled  me  with  a  living  sympath  v ; 
the  one  disposed  me  to  execration,  the  other  to  tears. 
No  man,  it  appears  to  me,  can  listen  to  this  opera, 
sustained  in  all  its  parts  with  the  ability  it  was  this 
night,  without  imbibing  a  fresh  reverence  for  virtue, 
and  a  deeper  detestation  of  vice. 

Carla  Felice,  as  an  edifice,  reflects  credit  on  the 
present  taste  of  the  Genoese.  It  is  rich  and  stately, 
and  free  of  the  meretricious  ornaments  which  disfigure 
their  earlier  architecture.  The  arrangements  and  or 
naments  of  the  interior  are  elegant  and  chaste,  while 
many  of  the  stage  decorations  are  truly  superb.  In 
finishing  and  furnishing  a  theatre,  there  is  usually  a 
wide  departure  from  the  simplicity  of  good  taste.  It 
would  seem  as  if  some  reeling  vision  of  delight  had 
dazzled  and  confounded  the  judgment  of  the  artist, 
and  he  heaps  one  ornament  upon  another  till  the 
beauty  of  the  original  design  is  lost  in  a  maze  of 
gilding  and  false  devices. 

Nor  does  the  Sanctuary,  with  all  its  high  and  sa 
cred  associations,  often  escape  entirely  the  effects  of 
this  frivolous,  fantastic  spirit.  Not  only  are  the 
churches  in  Genoa,  and  in  Catholic  communities 
generally,  scandalized  in  this  form,  but  they  seldom 
escape  where  they  have  been  reared  and  consecrated 
by  the  iconoclastic  spirit  of  Protestantism. 


A  SPEIGHTLY    BED-FELLOW.  117 

You  will  sometimes  find,  even  in  a  Methodist 
meeting-house,  where  the  seats  have  scarcely  the 
comfort  of  a  back,  a  red  velvet  cushion  on  the  pulpit, 
with  its  showy  embroidery,  long  fringe  and  prodigal 
tassels,  falling  far  down  over  the  many  colored  panels : 
all  the  work  of  aspiring  young  ladies,  who  it  would 
seem  had  hit  upon  this  mode  of  displaying,  to  the 
best  advantage,  their  handicraft,  in  the  hope,  perhaps, 
that  it  may  attract  the  eye  of  the  young  expounder, 
or  of  some  one  else  in  want  of  a  quiet,  industrious, 
and  excellent  wife. 

What  a  pity  our  sprigs  of  divinity  lose,  as  they  usu 
ally  do,  all  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  these 
unerring  intimations,  by  getting  a  wife  before  they  get 
a  pulpit ;  or,  what  is  worse,  by  entering  into  engage 
ments,  which,  by  the  way,  they  sometimes  break, 
and  without  any  other  provocation  than  the  superior 
attractions  of  another ;  a  breach  of  trust  for  which 
they  ought  to  be  broken  themselves.  If  one  of  them 
ever  enters  the  pulpit  of  a  church  where  I  am,  though 
my  seat  should  be  in  the  upper  gallery,  I  would  get 
out  of  the  building,  if  I  had  to  let  myself  down  by  the 
lightning-rod. 

Enough  of  this.  At  the  close  of  the  opera,  we 
went  and  took  rooms  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  one  of  the 
many  excellent  establishments  of  the  kind  to  be  met 
with  in  Genoa.  Here  you  have  nothing  to  annoy 
you,  save  at  night,  a  little  fellow,  who  springs  from 
his  covert  with  an  uncertainty  and  ubiquity  of  mo- 


11 S  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 


tion  which  the  most  dexterous  politician,  in  all  his 
shifts  for  office,  can  never  surpass.  He  is  more  sub 
tle  than  the  mosquito,  who  foolishly  sounds  his  little 
horn  at  his  approach  ;  for  the  only  warning  he  gives 
is  in  the  injury  he  inflicts  ;  and,  if  you  attack  him,  he 
is  off  at  some  other  point,  where  perhaps  he  was  least 
expected,  till,  at  last,  wearied  with  this  unavailing 
warfare,  you  resign  yourself  unconditionally  to  his 
malice.  Pity  he  has  none,  since  the  most  tender  of 
the  other  sex  are  most  thoroughly  his  victims. 

Still,  there  is  something  to  admire  about  this  little 
fellow :  his  selection  of  Italy  as  the  favorite  place  of 
his  abode,  his  choice  of  the  ladies  in  his  piratical  ad 
ventures,  and  the  soft  hour  of  night  in  which  he 
moves,  are  all  indications  of  a  refined  taste  and  an 
exquisite  classic  turn.  At  Paris  they  treat  him  with 
a  rudeness  utterly  at  variance  with  the  urbanity 
wrhich  we  are  accustomed  to  accord  to  this  most 
polite  people. 

We  saw  four  of  them  there  harnessed  into  a  car 
riage,  which  they  rolled  about  with  a  quick,  well- 
regulated  step ;  others  were  dancing  a  quadrille,  in 
which  they  balanced  and  exchanged  partners  with 
the  most  unexceptionable  ease  and  grace.  The  waltz 
appeared  to  make  them  giddy,  or  perhaps  its  want  of 
delicacy  offended  them;  for  they  never  could  be 
coaxed  or  compelled  to  excel  in  it.  Others  still,  wh-i 
had  been  less  favored  of  nature,  were  on  a  treadmill, 
where,  step  by  step,  upon  the  ever  deceiving 


TOUR  THROUGH  THE  PALACES.         119 

they  were  compelled  to  turn  a  complication  of  ma 
chinery  which  none  but  French  ingenuity  could  ever 
have  adapted  to  the  energies  of  a  flea ! 

The  next  morning,  taking  with  us  a  cicerone,  who 
was  rather  an  honorable  exception  to  the  usual  char 
acteristics  of  his  frail  fraternity,  we  sallied  forth  on 
a  tour  of  palaces — an  occupation  in  which  we  were 
agreeably  entertained  for  several  days.  These  ad 
mired  edifices,  though  rarely  constructed  of  the  most 
precious  material,  and  often  disparaged  by  architect 
ural  imitations  painted  on  the  facade,  are  yet  not  de 
ficient  in  solidity  and  grandeur. 

The  spacious  court  around  which  the  whole  is 
built,  with  its  marble  porticoes  towering  up  through 
the  centre  of  the  vast  pile, — the  broad  marble  steps 
on  which  you  ascend  to  the  different  lofts, — the  mar 
ble  balconies  from  wrhich  you  survey  the  busy  streets 
below, — the  lofty  terrace,  waving  with  the  orange, 
oleander,  and  lemon,  that  here  strike  their  roots  deep 
and  strong  in  a  soil  sustained  by  spreading  arches, 
and  refreshed  with  the  play  of  sparkling  fountains, — 
the  magnificent  saloons,  with  their  floors  of  smooth 
and  beautifully  stained  mastic,  and  arched  ceilings, 
covered  with  classic  frescoes,  and  the  walls,  hung  with 
tapestries,  mirrors,  and  gold,  or  adorned  with  the 
still  richer  triumphs  of  art, — all  excite  an  admira 
tion  which,  if  not  unqualified,  is  yet  deep  and  en 
during. 

These  princely  mansions  are  not  only  to  be  found 


120  ITALY   AND   THE   ITALIANS. 


ly  in  different  sections  of  the  city,  but  they 
border  three  of  the  principal  streets  so  continuously, 
that  scarce  an  intervening  object  occurs  to  break  the 
overpowering  impression.  Captious  criticism  may 
indeed  find  in  their  architecture  faults  sufficient  to 
stir  its  supercilious  vanity  and  spleen,  but  to  one 
who  forgets  minor  defects  in  prevailing  excellencies, 
they  will  ever  be  objects  of  genuine  admiration. 

The  proprietor  of  such  a  princely  mansion  is  often 
encountered  by  the  visitor  gliding  softly  through  the 
apartments,  and  presenting,  in  his  dress  and  person, 
an  evidence  of  abstemiousness  and  simplicity  that 
would  more  appropriately  become  the  cell  of  an  an 
chorite.  His  incurious  look  leads  you  to  regard  him 
as  some  poor  stranger  incapable  of  appreciating  the 
objects  of  art  around  him,  or  as  some  dreaming  en 
thusiast  whose  thoughts  have  run  on  more  exalted 
and  subtle  themes,  till  he  has  ceased  to  be  affected 
by  these  tangible  forms  of  magnificence  and  beauty. 

Yet,  before  you  have  finished  this  comment,  you 
will  find  him  perhaps  suddenly  pausing  before  some 
half  perished  painting,  which  to  you  is  little  more 
than  a  blank,  and  with  steadfast  look  prying  into  its 
dim  shadows,  as  if  he  were  penetrating  the  mysteries 
of  death.  Would  that  he  could  penetrate  the  reali 
ties  of  that  untried  change,  and  bring  forth  its  moral 
map! 

But  the  secrets  of  the  shroud  lie  beyond  the  men 
tal  reach  of  man.  What  we  were,  before  embodied 


MYSTERIES    OF   THE    FUTURE.  121 

in  this  breathing  world,  and  what  we  are  to  become 
when  we  pass  out  of  it,  are  to  him  alike  unknown. 
Life,  death,  the  past,  and  the  future,  are  all  a  deep 
and  solemn  mystery :  yet  we  are  gay  as  if  we  knew 
from  whence  we  came,  and  whither  we  are  going. 
We  are  but  bubbles  which  the  stream  of  time  bears 
on  its  ruffled  breast  to  the  ingulfing  ocean  of  eter 
nity. 

Like  bubbles  on  a  sea  of  matter  borne, 
We  rise,  we  break,  and  to  that  sea  return. 

6 


122  ITALY    AND    THE    ITALIANS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

HARK  to  the  bell,  from  convent  turret  pealing  I 

Its  mellow  music  fills  the  balmy  air ; 
Meekly  around  the  white-robed  altar  kneeling, 

The  vestal  virgins  hymn  their  matin  prayer: 
Their  pure  devotions  breathe  again  on  earth 
The  sacred  charm  that  hovered  'round  its  birth. 

GENOA    AND   THE    GENOESE A    REUNION     BY     MOONLIGHT THE     SUICIDED 

BRIDGE THE    DOME    OF    CARIGNANO THE    ALTAR    OF     HOPE RELUC 
TANT    CONFESSIONS CHAPEL    OF    JOHN   THE    BAPTIST CANOVA's    GRIEF, 

HOPE,    AND    FAITH RAPHAEL'S    ST.    STEPHEN PAINTINGS    OF    RUBENS 

AND    GUIDO CHAPEL    OF    THE    CARMELITES SALOON    OF    THE     SERRA 

PALACE PAINTING     OF     CARLO     DOLCI ASYLUM     FOR     MUTES THE 

GIRLS    OF    GENOA THE    MAGDALEN    OF     PAUL    VERONESE THE     BUST 

OF     COLUMBUS THE    PAST    AND    THE    PRESENT     OF     GENOA ASPIRA 
TIONS    OF    HOPE    FOR    THE    FUTURE. 

THE  streets  of  Genoa,  with  a  few  splendid  ex 
ceptions,  are  extremely  narrow ;  and  their  confined 
alley-like  character  is  rendered  seemingly  still  more 
restricted  by  the  attitude  of  the  buildings.  You  look 
up  from  the  pavement  as  from  the  bottom  of  some 
deep  chasm,  and  discover,  with  a  feeling  bordering 
on  insecurity,  the  elevation  of  the  aperture  communi 
cating  with  the  blue  sky,  but  you  quite  despair  of 
reaching  that  place  of  freer  respiration,  except  by 
some  ladder  little  less  in  height  than  the  one  which 
rose  on  the  Patriarch's  dream ! 


MEETING   BY    MOONLIGHT.  123 

You  occasionally  discover  an  arch  thrown  across 
from  the  balcony  of  one  dwelling  to  another,  though 
a  youth  of  elastic  limb  would  hardly  need  that  giddy 
bridge  to  aid  his  transit,  especially  if  winged  by  the 
impatient  hope  of  meeting  there  the  Medora  of  his 
heart.  The  spot  itself  may  sometimes  be  the  mutual 
refuge  or  resting-place  of  affection ;  for  I  once  saw 
on  one  of  these,  at  the  dead  of  night,  between  me 
and  the  moon,  two  clasping  forms,  so  light,  distinct, 
and  soft  in  outline,  you  would  have  said  the  grave 
had  given  up  the  most  beautiful  of  its  tenants — or 
that  two  embodied  spirits  had  stepped  from  their 
wandering  cloud  to  linger  there  in  admiration  of  the 
splendor  and  silence  which  reigned  over  the  sleeping 
life  of  the  city. 

But  these  slight  arches,  trod  by  love,  are  far  less 
lofty  than  one  connecting  two  more  substantial  ele 
vations  within  the  precincts  of  the  town.  This 
springs  bold  and  free  over  the  tops  of  buildings,  high 
enough  of  themselves  to  dwindle  the  jostling  crowd 
of  the  street  into  dwarfs.  From  this  the  ruined  in 
fortune  and  the  broken  in  hope,  frequently  cast 
themselves  down,  ending  at  once  life  and  its  press 
ing  sorrows.  This  fatal  step  would  less  deserve  our 
criminating  rebuke,  could  they  in  that  fall  "  leap  the 
life  to  come  ;"  but  they  only  pass  to  the  fearful  reali 
ties  of  that  existence  from  which,  even  in  the  ut 
most  depths  of  the  future,  there  is  no  escape  to  be 
found. 


ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 


Yet,  I  never  stopped  at  the  forsaken  grave  of  a 
poor  suicide  without  feeling  more  inclined  to  tears 
than  maledictions.  The  bitterness  of  disappoint 
ment,  the  weight  of  anguish,  and  the  wear  and  fever 
of  the  heart  that  can  in  themselves  reconcile  a  man 
to  death,  and  make  him  consent  to  become  his  own 
executioner,  must  have  an  energy  which  none  but 
those  who  have  some  time  or  other  partially  har 
bored  the  frightful  purpose,  can  fully  comprehend. 
What  man  of  intellect  and  sensibility  could  rail  at 
the  grave  of  the  author  of  Lacon  ?  Even  merited 
reproach  falters  at  a  recollection  of  his  transcendent 
powers,  and  erring  charity  veils  the  terrors  of  his 
suicidal  guilt.  But  in  times  like  these,  when  this 
species  of  crime  is  becoming  fearfully  frequent,  I 
commend  to  my  thinking  reader  the  Suicide's  Argu 
ment,  and  Nature's  Answer  —  by  Coleridge  : 

Ere  the  birth  of  my  life,  if  I  wished  it  or  no, 
No  question  was  asked  me  —  it  could  not  be  so  ! 
If  the  life  was  the  question,  a  thing  sent  to  try, 
And  to  live  on  be  YES  ;  what  can  NO  be  ?  —  "  To  die." 

NATURE'S  ANSWER. 

Is't  returned  as  'twas  sent  ?     Is't  no  worse  for  the  wear  ? 

Think  first,  what  you  ARE  !     Call  to  mind  what  you  WERE  ! 

I  gave  you  innocence,  I  gave  you  hope, 

Giive  health,  and  genius,  and  an  ample  scope. 

Return  you  me  guilt,  lethargy,  despair  ? 

M;ikc  out  the  invent'ry  ;  inspect,  compare  ! 

Then  die  —  if  die  you  dare  ! 


RELUCTANT   CONFESSIONS.  125 

Near  tins  bridge  of  death — as  if  to  lure  the  de 
spairing  to  the  light  and  promises  of  a  better  hope — 
stands  the  beautiful  church  of  Carignano.  A  dome 
of  graceful  spring  lets  in  the  soft  light  upon  the  wor 
shipper,  as  he  kneels  in  the  low  nave  amid  the 
breathing  statues  of  those  who,  like  him,  have 
meekly  wrestled  with  their  lot.  He  feels  there  not 
utterly  forsaken  in  his  sorrows ;  around  him  are 
those  who  once  wept,  trusted,  and  triumphed.  There, 
too,  is  the  sweet  face  of  HER  whose  all-pitying  look 
sheds  encouragement  over  the  broken  heart  of  the 
penitent — and  there,  too,  is  the  boundless  compassion 
of  HIM  wrhose  merits  and  mercy  are  the  refuge  of  a 
ruined  world. 

To  this  altar  let  me  come ;  but,  alas  !  I  have  no 
offerings  to  bring,  except  the  blighted  remains  of  be 
trayed  purposes,  and  violated  vows  :  these  bathed  in 
tears  I  lay  down  with  a  blush  of  contrition  and  shame. 
May  the  strength  of  higher  and  holier  resolves  brace 
me  to  the  responsibilities  which  gather  wide  and 
deep  over  this  deathless  soul.  I  have  slumbered  too 
long :  the  fresh  hours  of  the  morning  have  all  passed 
from  the  dial  of  my  life  ;  the  index  has  reached  the 
meridian,  and  nothing  yet  has  been  attempted  worthy 
of  myself,  or  the  duty  I  owe  my  God  and  my  fellow- 
men. 

Awake,  my  heart !  though  pulseless,  prostrate,  and 
cold,  yet  awake  !  The  bent  reeds  where  the  tempest 
bath  been,  have  come  up  ;  and  the  fettered  earth  on 


126  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

which  the  winter  had  cast  its  icy  chain,  has  opened 
into  blossoms  and  song,  but  thou,  like  one  on  whom 
the  grave  hath  closed,  stirrest  not !  Awake  !  rise  in 
thy  rallied  life  and  strength,  if  it  be  but  to  struggle, 
to  bleed,  and  die  ! 

Although  these  confessions  and  self-reproaches  flow 
all  unbidden  from  my  inmost  heart,  yet  I  must  turn 
to  that  in  which  the  reader  can  find  a  more  pleasing 
interest.  Leaving  the  statues  which  adorn  the  nave 
of  Carignano,  and  which  are  the  work  of  Puget — the 
Michael  Angelo  of  France — we  went  to  the  Cathedral, 
which  derives  its  interest  less  from  its  architectural 
pretensions,  than  its  venerable  age.  The  exterior  is 
cased  with  alternate  layers  of  white  and  black  marble, 
distinct,  and  strongly  marked  as  the  American  and 
the  sable  sons  of  Africa,  whom  oppression  and  crime 
have  chained  to  our  soil. 

In  one  of  the  chapels  dedicated  to  John  the  Bap 
tist,  we  were  shown  the  iron  urn  believed  by  many 
to  contain  the  ashes  of  that  forerunner  of  Christ.  As 
this  pioneer  was  sacrificed  to  the  whim  of  a  frivolous 
female,  none  of  her  sex  are  allowed  to  approach  his 
shrine.  We  found  here,  also,  the  celebrated  emerald 
vase,  reputed  to  have  been  presented  by  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  to  Solomon,  and  taken  at  Cesarea  by  the  band 
ed  hosts  that  went  out  to  rescue  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 
I  cannot  but  half  regret  that  the  recent  tests  of  skep 
tical  science  have  decided  this  splendid  trophy  to  he 
only  a  composition  of  polished  glass  !  Lite  itself  is 


127 


a  delusion,  and  why  break  the  bubbles  that  float  on 
its  breath  ! 

A  monumental  group  in  this  church  struck  me  as 
one  of  the  most  delicate  and  pleasing  efforts  of  Cano- 
va's  genius.  Grief,  in  the  likeness  of  a  weeping  angel, 
looks  down  with  tender  resignation  on  the  tomb,  while 
Hope,  in  the  earnestness  of  an  unfaltering  faith,  looks 
up  to  that  anchor  which  Faith  hath  cast  within  the 
veil.  Never  before,  or  since,  has  death  to  me  been 
so  disarmed  of  its  terrors. 

Say  what  we  will  against  the  visible  representation 
of  spiritual  existences,  they  affect  us  the  most  deeply 
in  this  form.  In  the  one  we  have  shape,  substance, 
sympathy ;  in  the  other,  only  a  vague,  intangible, 
ideal  conception,  that  addresses  itself  to  no  outward 
sense.  Think  you,  that  the  multitude  would  linger 
so  around  that  statue  which  enchants  the  heart,  if 
there  were  nothing  there  but  the  invisible  creation  of 
mind  ?  I  think  not ;  and  hence  it  is  that  the  Catho 
lic  faith,  with  its  striking  palpable  symbols,  danger 
ous,  and  to  be  deprecated  as  some  of  them  are,  will 
ever  take  precedence  with  those  who  are  influenced 
more  by  their  outward  senses,  than  their  abstract 
convictions. 

The  church  of  St.  Stephen  derives  its  leading  in 
terest  from  a  representation  of  that  first  martyr,  by 
Raphael,  as  he  bows  himself,  with  the  forgiving  spirit 
of  his  master,  to  the  malice  of  his  murderers.  His 
very  look  of  innocence  and  meekness  were  enough, 


128  ITALY   AND    THE   ITALIANS. 

one  would  suppose,  to  disarm  the  most  savage  breast 
of  its  hatred.  But  man,  when  he  persecutes  in  the 
name  of  religion,  seems  the  more  steeled  to  all  the 
kindlier  impulses  of  his  nature.  He  lights  his  pro 
fane  brand  at  the  altar  of  Heaven,  and  then  kindles 
up  a  conflagration  at  which  Hell  might  shudder. 

The  church  of  the  Annunziata  is  splendid  in  its 
marbles,  but  frightful  in  the  malefactor  of  Corloni — 
broken  on  the  wheel ;  while  the  Ambragia,  of  less 
ambition  in  design  and  richness  in  ornaments,  has 
the  milder  and  deeper  attractions  derived  from  the 
life-imparting  pencils  of  Rubens  and  Guido. 

But  of  all  the  sanctuaries  here,  none  charmed  me 
more  than  the  chapel  of  the  Carmelite  nuns.  This 
is  small,  simple,  chaste,  and  in  harmony  with  the 
noiseless  habits  of  those  who  here  enshrine  their  timid 
hopes  of  immortality.  Would  that  she  were  here 
who  weeps  within  the  walls  of  Santa  Clara  ;  here  to 
kneel  and  hymn  her  vesper  prayer,  and  then,  with 
the  wings  of  a  dove,  to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest.  Into 
whatever  quarter  of  the  heaven  she  might  pass,  I 
should  watch  her  flight  as  one  that  would  pursue. 
But,  ah !  Maria,  though  the  wing  of  the  turtle-dove 
were  lent  thee,  and  a  pinion  granted  me  of  equal 
fleetness,  yet  whither  could  we  fly  ?  Where  escape 
from  the  all-shadowing  Upas  of  sin  and  evil  that 
blights  this  earth  ? 

There  is  no  isle,  in  the  most  sunny  clime,  that  sor 
row  hath  not  touched  ;  no  shore  on  the  remotest  sea, 


SALOON    OF    THE   SERRA    PALACE.  129 

where  Death  hath  not  his  empire.  The  pall,  the 
plume,  and  the  sable  hearse-  move  from  every  point 
of  this  globe  to  that  shadowy  realm,  where  the 
mourner  soon  becomes  the  mourned. 

Thou  strikest  down  the  monarch  in  his  hall, 
And  leavest  not  the  courtier  at  his  side  ; 

Thou  minglest  with  the  dance  at  marriage-ball, 
And  carriest  off  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ; 

Thou  hear'st  the  home-returning  sailor  call 
To  her  he  loves,  then  dash'st  him  in  the  tide — 

The  brave  and  young,  the  beautiful  and  gay, 

The  "  shining  mark"  thou  ever  bear'st  away. 

We  will  then,  sweet  one,  build  our  altar  to  Hope, 
and  earnestly  look  for  that  promised  land,  where 
tears  and  farewells  are  unknown ;  where  the  counte 
nance  of  the  dweller  is  ever  filled  with  perfect  light ; 
where  the  unwithered  and  uncrushed  flowers  still 
breathe  their  fragrant  homage ;  and  where  the  rich 
harp-string  mingles  its  music  with  the  voice  of  the 
River  of  the  "Water  of  Life,  that  flows 

"  Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God." 

Could  any  thing  tempt  our  thoughts  back  from  the 
excursions  of  Hope  to  this  earth,  and  the  brilliant 
vanity  of  its  cities,  it  might  be  the  splendors  of  a 
saloon  in  the  Serra  palace  of  Genoa.  Here,  walls 
and  columns  covered  with  mirror  and  gold,  a  floor  of 
tesselated  marbles,  and  tables  of  richest  mosaic,  fasci 
nate  the  eye  ;  and  you  at  first  half  conceive  yourself 

6* 


130  ITALY    AND    THE    ITALIANS. 

realizing  the  gorgeous  fictions  of  some  oriental  dream  ; 
and  you  begin  to  forget  the  poverty,  strife,  and 
wretchedness  which  disfigure  the  condition  of  man. 

But  there  is  one  painting,  amqng  the  many  which 
adorn  the  costly  galleries  of  this  mansion,  which 
brings  you  back  to  the  painful  reality;  it  is  from  the 
vivid  pencil  of  Carlo  Dolci,  and  represents  that  scene 
in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  in  which  holy  Inno 
cence,  amid  the  sorrow  and  dismay  of  our  shrinking 
nature,  resigned  itself  to  the  agonies  and  ignominy  of 
the  cross  !  He  that  can  gaze  on  this  scene,  and  feel 
no  emotions  of  grief  and  reverence,  must  have  a  heart 
that  pity  cannot  touch,  or  Heaven  forgive  ! 

I  could  take  the  reader  to  other  princely  edifices, 
to  the  unrivalled  paintings  which  adorn  them,  the 
statues  and  marbles  which  heighten  their  claims  to 
admiration,  for  no  city  in  the  world  is  so  rich  in 
palaces  as  Genoa.  But  there  is  one  feature  of  this 
city  which  must  not  be  passed  unnoticed ;  it  is  the 
provision  which  has  been  made  by  individual  wealth 
for  the  relief  of  the  unfortunate  and  poor. 

Here  the  deaf  and  dumb  are  taught  to  communicate 
their  feelings,  and  catch  the  meaning  of  others,  without 
the  aid  of  an  articulate  language ;  here  the  aged  whom 
the  turning  tide  of  fortune  has  left  wrecked  on  the 
shore,  find  a  simple,  but  generous  asylum  ;  here  the 
orphan-boy  is  furnished  the  means  of  procuring  a 
present  subsistence,  and  of  acquiring  a  knowledge 
that  may  subserve  his  after  years ;  and  here  the  little 


ASYLUM  FOR  DEAF  MUTES.  131 


girl,  who  has  no  mother  and  no  home,  may  find  a. 
cheerful  refuge,  where  she  may  braid  her  flowers, 
receive  the  avails  of  her  work,  and  at  a  becoming  age, 
perhaps,  make  another  happy  with  her  beauty  and 
timid  worth.  These  are  the  benefactions  of  the  more 
wealthy  citizens  of  Genoa,  and  bespeak  virtues  that 
will  be  revered,  when  the  usual  forms  in  which  wealth 
expresses  itself  will  be  remembered  only  to  be  pitied 
and  despised. 

"We  were  cautioned,  in  coming  here,  not  to  go  in 
our  purchases  beyond  the  assurances  of  our  own  know 
ledge,  and  we  at  first  hesitated  distrustingly  over  the 
genuineness  of  a  string  of  coral  beads,  those  little 
gifts  which  one  gets  abroad  for  an  infant  sister,  a 
lisping  niece,  or  one  deeper  in  the  vale  of  years,  and 
perhaps,  scarcely  capable  of  receiving  them  without 
a  surrender  of  the  heart.  But  in  all  the  purchases 
we  made — and  they  were  many,  and  some  of  no  in 
considerable  value — I  heard  no  complaints  of  the  Li- 
gurian  fraud.  The  jewelled  watch  that  exhausted 
my  little  purse,  has  proved  as  true  to  the  promise  of 
its  vender,  as  a  steed  to  the  word  of  a  Turk.  I  wish 
I  were  as  regular  in  my  habits  as  this  is  in  its  hours ; 
and  as  true  to  my  real  interests  as  this  is  to  the  sun. 
But  I  am  not ;  neither  can  }^ou  be :  but  were  it  as 
easy  for  us  to  correct  our  faults,  as  it  is  to  detect 
them,  virtue  would  lose  the  merit  she  now  derives 
from  the  conflict.  It  is  the  hardest  of  substances  that 
polish  the  steel  the  brightest. 


132  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

The  Genoese,  especially  the  young  women,  are  re 
markably  neat  in  their  person;  even  those  in  the 
humblest  condition  seldom  offend  you  in  a  negligence 
of  dress.  The  kerchief  that  protects  the  bosom  may 
have  been  rent,  but  it  has  been  repaired ;  and  its 
snowy  whiteness  blushes  back  the  living  carnation  of 
her  cheek.  The  stocking  may  betray  the  frequent 
efforts  of  the  needle,  but  it  sets  snugly  to  the  round 
instep,  and  there  is  nothing  else  there  to  make  you 
wish  the  gentle  wearer  had  forded  one  of  her  moun 
tain  streams. 

The  daughter  of  the  simple  gardener,  as  she  sits  at 
market  by  the  side  of  her  little  vegetable  store,  seems 
to  have  caught  her  conceptions  of  propriety  from  the 
violets  of  her  parterre ;  and  the  blooming  girl  of 
Kecco  understands  how  to  give  an  additional  attrac 
tion  to  a  smooth  orange,  or  a  cluster  of  grapes  ;  for 
she  comes  in  her  blue  silk  bodice,  her  rose-colored 
petticoat,  her  Maltese  cross  of  gold,  with  her  hair 
fancifully  braided,  rolled  up,  and  interlaced  with 
flowers,  where  the  tuberose  and  the  pomegranate 
blossom,  and  sprigs  of  rich  jasmine  in  their  mingled 
beauty  and  fragrance,  are  not  more  captivating  than 
the  bright  smile  which  plays  over  her  sweet  face. 

"Who  would  not  purchase  of  such  a  one !  I  could 
not  pass  her  by,  though  her  osier  basket  held  only 
the  perished  fruits  of  some  blighted  tree.  I  huvt; 
ever  observed  that  he  who  solicits  charity  for  another, 
or  essays  to  sell  what  is  his  own,  is  most  suc(v»t'ul 


MAGDALEN    OF    PAUL    VERONESE.  133 


when  lie  rather  stirs  our  admiration  than  pity.  Emo 
tions  which  flow  from  objects,  in  themselves  agree 
able,  are  ever  more  welcome  guests  at  the  heart,  than 
those  which  come  to  claim  our  compassion ;  and 
hence  it  is  that  rich  men,  dying  heirless,  oftener  be 
queath  their  property  to  the  wealthy  than  the  poor. 
What  a  miserable  thing,  after  all,  is  human  nature  ! 
But  I  am  moralizing  again  without  knowing  it.  Can 
a  stream  leave  the  spring  and  not  carry  with  it  the 
properties  of  its  fountain  ? 

We  could  not  leave  Genoa  without  a  farewell  visit 
to  the  Mary  Magdalen  of  Paul  Veronese,  in  the  Regal 
Palace.  This  truly  feminine  being  is  here  represented 
as  in  the  house  of  the  Pharisee,  at  the  feet  of  our 
Saviour,  and  so  full  of  life  and  tender  force  is  each 
limb  and  feature,  that  your  feelings,  unperceived  by 
yourself,  begin  to  flood  your  eyes.  Her  attitude  so 
meek  and  devoted ;  her  long  and  flowing  locks  of 
gold,  concealing  more  of  her  face  than  her  emotions  ; 
that  timid  hand  half  failing  in  its  office,  that  look 
of  grief  and  love,  and  those  tears  as  they  swim  and 
fall,  make  you  feel  that  there  is  a  tenderness  and 
sweetness  in  piety,  which  nothing  can  surpass  or 
supply  in  the  female  heart. 

We  have  been  to  the  palace  of  the  Doges,  but  there 
is  only  enough  there  to  make  you  grieve  for  what  is 
gone.  The  great  Council  Chamber,  with  its  lofty 
ceiling  of  Venice-frescoes,  and  its  stately  columns  of 
beautiful  Brocatello,  remains,  but  the  statues  which 


134  ITALY    AND    THE    ITALIANS. 


once  adorned  it  Lave  departed,  and  their  place  has 
been  supplied  by  such  representations  as  plaster  and 
a  fault-concealing  drapery  can  bring.  These  men  of 
clay  and  ruffles,,  standing  so  astutely  in  this  hall  of 
legislative  wisdom,  reminded  me  of  those  members 
of  our  Congress  unconditionally  instructed  by  their 
constituents ! 

But  there  is  one  thing  here  to  which  an  American 
heart  can  never  be  wholly  dead  :  it  is  a  marble  bust 
of  Columbus ;  and  there  are  also  three  letters  ad 
dressed  to  citizens  of  Genoa,  in  his  own  hand-writing. 
These  memorials  reconciled  us  to  the  desolate  sensa 
tions  of  the  spot ;  they  brought  back,  with  flashing 
power,  the  virtues  and  trials,  the  triumphs  and  suffer 
ings  of  one  to  whom  the  North  owes  its  greatest  debt 
of  gratitude ;  and  who  sunk  to  his  last  rest  in  dis 
trust,  desertion,  and  chains. 

But  it  is  not  for  me  to  dress  his  bier,  nor  will  I 
presumptively  cast  a  flower  into  that  fragrant  and 
imperishable  garland,  that  Washington  Irving  has 
woven  on  his  grave.  Virtue  may  be  misrepresented, 
persecuted,  and  consigned  to  the  shroud,  but  the 
righteous  wake  not  more  assuredly  to  the  reality  of 
their  hopes,  than  this  to  an  immortal  remembrance. 

The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  every  thing  in 
Genoa  wore  to  my  eye  so  much  of  the  couleur  de  rose 
as  I  may  at  first  seem  to  intimate.  I  might  have 
darkly  shaded  some  features  of  this  picture,  without 
being  unjust  to  the  original ;  but  my  first  glance  of 

4 


GENOA'S  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  135 

the  place  from  the  sea  disarmed  me,  and  I  was  like 
a  painter  sketching  the  face  of  the  one  he  loves.  I 
might  with  truth  have  brought  out  into  mournful 
prominence  the  ignorance  of  the  great  mass,  their 
delusive  confidence  in  the  pageantries  of  their  re 
ligion,  their  easily  disruptured  connection  with  a 
virtuous  life,  the  jealousies  and  feuds  which  trouble 
their  social  relations,  the  absence  of  sufficient  en 
couragement  to  enterprise  and  industry  in  their  civil 
condition,  the  spirit  of  discontent  which  poisons  their 
peace,  and,  above  all,  the  hated  and  massive  des 
potism  that  grinds  them  to  the  earth. 

The  lingering  forms  of  her  freedom  have  at  length 
departed  :  her  Doges  are  in  the  grave ;  her  commerce 
has  fled  from  the  ocean  ;  Egypt  and  Palestine,  Asia 
Minor  and  Thrace,  the  Mediterranean  and  Levant, 
with  the  thousand  bright  isles  that  gem  those  waters, 
where  she  was  once  respected  and  obeyed,  now  know 
her  no  more.  Even  Venice,  her  ancient  rival,  has 
ceased  to  dream  of  her  worth.  To  all  the  East  she  is — 
what  are  now  the  thousands  that  once  went  from  her 
bosom  to  perish  in  the  Holy  Land — a  phantom  of 
perished  power. 

But  a  better  day  may  yet  dawn  on  Genoa :  she  is 
not  yet  the  ruined  votary  of  vice,  or  the  crouching 
and  creeping  slave  of  tyranny.  Another  Doria,  like 
her  first,  may  yet  arise  to  rally  her  scattered  and 
dismayed  strength,  to  break  the  iron  that  eats  into 
her  soul,  to  send  the  malignant  despot  that  rivets  her 


136  ITALY   AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

chain  back  to  his  petty  isle ;  and,  sustained  by  the 
slanting  vigor  of  fraternal  cities,  she  may  yet  grapple 
with  the  force  of  Austrian  interference,  and  with 
indignant  energy  hurl  back  the  broken  links  of  her 
fetters  into  the  very  teeth  of  that  Moloch  of  despotism. 
May  this  day  come — may  these  eyes  see  it ;  and, 
lovely  Genoa,  were  not  the  proffer  beneath  thy  pride, 
here  is  a  heart  and  hand  for  thee  !  Strike  for  free 
dom  and  for  self-respect,  for  the  greatness  lost  and 
the  gifts  that  remain  !  Thousands  mourn  thy  slum 
ber,  and  the  spirits  of  thy  Fathers  speak  to  thee  from 
the  grave ! 

Sons  of  the  mighty  dead,  why  are  ye  weeping 

Your  hearts  away  in  unavailing  woe  ? 
Nature  is  bright  and  gay,  as  she  were  keeping 

A  festival  in  heaven's  seraphic  glow ; 
But  ye  are  sad — alas  !  those  dirges  sweeping 

That  plaintive  Lyre — so  mournfully  and  low — 
That  Lyre  that  Harold's  magic  fingers  strung — 
Too  soon  in  sadness  on  the  cypress  hung. 

There  it  shall  breathe  its  melancholy  lay, 

In  memory  of  him,  whose  soul  of  fire 
Gleamed  through  its  tenement  of  heated  clay, 

Kindling  and  glowing  down  each  tuneful  wire, 
Till  heart — soul — feeling — passion's  wildest  play, 

Seemed  as  existent  only  in  his  Lyre. 
Love — Freedom — Glory  were  his  theme.  Oh  !  when, 
If  ever,  will  such  numbers  wake  again  ! 


FAREWELL   TO   GENOA.  137 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  OH,  ITALY  !  how  beautiful  thou  art  ! 
Yet  I  could  weep  —  for  thou,  alas,  art  lying     ' 
Low  in  the  dust  ;  and  they  who  come,  admire  thee, 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  Beauty. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  enslave  thee  1" 

DEPARTURE  FROM  GENOA  -  DRIFTING  IN  A  CALM  -  A  THEOLOGICAL    FROG  - 

-  CONSUMMATION    OF    LOVE  -  ANCHORING  AT    LEGHORN  -  MORNING    AND 
EVENING  -  SEQUEL    OF    A     HAPPY    MARRIAGE  -  MUTUAL     RECOGNITION  - 

-  NIGHT  AFTER  LOBSTER  -  REMINISCENCES  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


had  said  or  sung  our  farewell  to  Genoa,  and 
were  now  on  board  ship,  moving  in  company  with 
the  Flag  towards  Leghorn  ;  but  it  was  such  a  move 
ment  as  a  criminal,  conscious  of  a  love  of  life,  would 
desire  on  his  way  to  execution.  So  still  lay  the  wa 
ters  around  us,  a  dog  jumped  overboard  on  to  the 
shadow  of  our  ship.  Not  a  breath  came  sufficient 
to  crisp  the  sea,  and  a  tortoise  travelling  on  shore  in 
the  same  direction,  went  out  of  sight,  though  he  ap 
peared  to  be  a  paralytic  in  two  of  his  legs,  and  to 
have  lost  one  of  the  others  by  some  unaccountable 
misfortune. 

Perhaps  in  some  borough  election  he  had  gone  the 


ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 


whole  quadruped,  and  thinking  a  vote  defeated  as 
good  as  one  gained,  had  scuffled  himself  out  of  a 
limb  instead  of  an  eye,  as  is  usually  the  case.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  he  got  ahead  —  it  may  be  owing  to  the 
fact  that  our  ship  did  not  move  at  all  —  but  certainly 
I  never  saw  a  tortoise  travel  so  fast  as  that  one. 

The  three  most  miserably  helpless  things  in  the 
world,  are  "a  ship  in  a  calm,  a  whale  thoroughly 
stranded,  and  a  politician  in  bad  odor.  The  devil 
himself  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  either,  unless 
it  were  the  last  ;  he  seldom  utterly  forsakes  a  political 
game-cock  ; 

But  keeps  him  at  the  battle,  or  the  drill, 
To  work  his  master  further  mischief  stilL 

But  what  have  canvassing  and  cock-fighting  to  do 
with  our  getting  to  Leghorn  ?  Just  as  much,  reader, 
as  the  winds  and  waves,  for  they  are  both  so  breath 
less  and  still,  that  our  ship  headed  indifferently,  first 
for  the  port  to  which  we  were  bound,  then  for  that 
which  we  had  left.  "  Zounds  !"  said  Jack,  rubbing 
his  ey  es  and  looking  again  at  the  compass,  "  the  stem 
of  the  ship  has  got  into  her  stern,  or  we  are  going 
back  to  Genoa."  "  Going  !"  interrupted  a  boatswain's 
mate  dryly,  "  the  rocks  on  that  shore  move  as  much 
as  this  ship;  we  have  not  logged  a  fathom  these  six 
teen  watcltes,  and  what  matter  which  way  she  heads, 
since  she  don't  stir.  The  Paddy  that  got  on  wrong 
side  afore  was  right  till  his  horse  got  under  way  ; 

5 


A   FROG   FALLING   IN   LOVE.  139 


when  the  toad  jumps  it  will  be  time  to  say  whether 
it  be  back'ard  or  for'ard." 

Here  the  dialogue  was  interrupted ;  but  the  allu 
sion  to  the  toad,  so  singular  from  the  lips  of  a  sailor, 
reminded  me  of  an  old  friend  with  \vhom  I  became 
acquainted  during  my  connection  with  the  Theologi 
cal  Seminary  at  Andover,  and  who  was,  perhaps,  the 
most  remarkable  frog  of  this  age.  He  "had,  it  is 
true,  none  of  those  glaring  and  striking  qualities 
which  blind  one  with  their  very  brilliancy ;  he  was 
rather  distinguished  for  sedateness,  and  dignity  of 
demeanor,  and  that  graceful  amenity  of  deportment 
which  intimated  his  high  extraction.  He  lived  among 
his  brethren,  but  above  them.  There  was  no  pride  in 
his  look,  and  yet  he  admitted  none  into  terms  of  per 
fect  familiarity.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  rebukingly 
averse  to  such  irregularities  and  improprieties  in 
others,  but  his  voice  was  never  heard  disturbing  the 
stillness  of  the  night,  or  the  sweet  slumber  of  the 
morning.  x 

Like  a  true  gentleman,  he  made  his  appearance 
about  mid-day,  under  the  protection  of  a  juniper 
which  shades  the  verge  of  the  parapet  on  which  the 
Institution  stands.  Here  he  was  wont  to  sit,  with  a 
wide  and  variegated  landscape  spread  out  before  him, 
and  with  the  half-abstracted  air  of  one  pleased  with 
outward  objects,  but  meditating  with  much  deeper 
interest  on  the  profound  mysteries  of  his  own  nature. 
He  seemed  ever  to  be  filled  with  incommunicable 


140  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

thought.  His  features,  though  strongly  marked,  and 
indicating  an  intellect  of  a  high  order,  never  but  on 
one  occasion,  that  I  recollect,  betrayed  those  swelling 
emotions,  which,  I  know,  must  frequently  have  surged 
over  his  spirit. 

A  small  bird,  with  short  bill  and  speckled  wings, 
had  alighted  upon  the  juniper,  and  soon  turning  from 
all  the  attractions  of  the  tree,  began  as  devotedly  to 
regard  the  beautiful  green  and  azure  dress  of  the 
being  that  sat  composedly  beneath,  as  if  she  had 
forgotten,  in  some  erring  fondness  of  fancy,  those 
amphibious  qualities  so  incompatible  with  her  own 
habitudes  and  tastes.  She  looked,  she  fluttered  her 
little  wings,  she  jumped  down  from  spray  to  spray, 
each  one  still  lower,  till  she  reached  the  very  lowest, 
and  then  she  breathed  the  sweetest  note  I  ever  heard 
from  bill  of  bird  or  lip  of  beauty.  But  ere  the  sound 
died  away,  he  whom  she  had  thus  strangely  chosen, 
and  secretly  won,  looked  up,  and  the  soul-yielding 
tenderness  of  that  look  may  be  imagined,  but  never 
described  !  The  look  of  my  Uncle  Toby  into  the  eye 
of  Widow  Wadman,  for  the  speck  which  was  not  in 
the  white,  might  have  had  as  much  benevolence  in 
it,  but  could  not  have  had  one  half  the  fondness. 

From  that  day  to  this,  I  never  saw  that  frog  again ; 
but  I  was  told,  that  one  very  much  like  him  was  seen 
next  morning,  at  daybreak,  making  music,  and  that 
a  beautiful  bird  was  singing  in  concert  at  his  side ; 
and  that  a  few  evenings  after  this — a  thing  that 


WE   ANCHOR   AT   LEGHORN.  141 

grieves  me  to  relate — an  owl  was  seen  perched  on  a 
very  low  stump,  who  appeared,  in  the  gravity  of  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  to  be  pronouncing  between  the 
parties  an  irreparable  divorce.  Probably  this  con 
nection,  like  most  of  those  which  result  from  beauty, 
music,  and  sudden  affection,  had  proved  unhappy. 
"Whose  fault  it  was,  in  this  particular  instance,  I  pre 
tend  not  to  say ;  but  my  daughter,  I  would  say  to 
you — if  I  had  one — an  attachment,  to  be  lasting, 
must  be  based  upon  qualities  not  only  congenial,  but 
equally  indestructible  with  itself.  There  are  proper 
ties  in  the  heart,  which  familiarity  cannot  chill,  nor 
time  impair. 

But  I  forget  the  ship  and  her  destination.  After 
nine  days,  by  the  aid  of  a  few  vagrant  zephyrs,  and 
a  slight  current  that  set  in  our  favor,  we  let  go  our 
anchor  at  Leghorn ;  a  place  the  more  welcome  to  me 
as  it  held  a  couple  whom  I  had  contributed  to  make 
happy  while  at  Marseilles.  One  was  a  youthful  Hi 
bernian  of  character,  wealth,  and  enterprise,  the 
other  a  young  Tuscan  lady,  as  sweet  and  romantic  a 
being  as  ever  sported  on  the  green  banks  of  the  Arno. 
They  were  devotedly  attached  to  each  other,  but  as 
he  was  a  Protestant  and  she  a  Catholic,  they  could 
not  be  united  here,  without  a  virtual  renunciation  on 
his  part  of  the  distinguishing  features  of  his  creed. 
They  had  come,  therefore,  to  France,  in  the  hope  that 
the  less  rigid  forms  of  the  Church  there  would  per 
mit  their  marriage  ;  but  the  ecclesiastical  authorities 


142  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

there  did  not  feel  themselves  at  liberty  to  gratify  their 
wishes. 

This  was  the  more  trying,  as  the  wife  of  the  Scotch 
merchant,  under  whose  protection  the  young  lady 
had  come  to  Marseilles,  was  bound  to  her  native  hills, 
and  the  timid  Tuscan  could  not  discreetly  return  to 
Leghorn  without  her.  This  was  their  perplexing 
predicament  when  I  incidentally  fell  in  with  them, 
and  they  at  once  consulted  me  on  my  willingness  to 
perform  the  ceremony,  and  the  extent  of  my  privi 
lege  on  this  subject.  I  told  them  that  the  rite,  as 
performed  by  me,  would  be  sacred  and  sound,  mor 
ally,  the  world  over,  and  civilly,  in  all  Protestant 
countries.  This  was  enough ;  their  countenances 
lightened  up ;  they  rose  as  by  one  impulse,  took  each 
other  by  the  hand — their  hearts  had  been  united  long 
before — were  wed,  and  were  happy  ! 

This  was  one  of  those  bright  spots  which  will  occa 
sionally  occur  in  a  man's  life ;  and  though  I  felt  suf 
ficiently  compensated  in  having  contributed  in  this 
form  to  their  happiness,  yet  several  gold  pieces,  mas 
sive  and  bright,  soon  came  to  acknowledge  me  as 
their  owner.  But  these  did  not  much  avail  me,  for 
the  ladies  there  declaring  it  highly  improper  that  a 
gentleman,  not  married  himself,  should  be  benefited 
by  marrying  others,  formed  a  conspiracy  again-! 
these  little  fellows  of  the  yellow  jacket,  and  the  re 
sult  was,  they  were  all  dissolved  in  ice-creams  and 
other  delicious  confectioneries. 


A   HAPPY   HONEY-MOON.  143 

I  have  ever  found  that  it  is  better  in  such  cases 
to  yield  at  once;  for  I  had  rather  contend  against 
twenty  robbers,  armed  with  pistols  and  knives,  than 
one  lady  in  the  dexterous  use  of  her  innocent  gifts  of 
beauty,  wit,  and  smiles.  We  must  yield — it  is  a  law 
of  nature — and  yield  not  only  a  few  sequins,  but 
tli at  cherished  independence  as  dear  to  many  as  life 
itself.  Dazzled,  bewildered,  fascinated,  we  cast  it 
down,  and  seem  to  riot  in  the  sacrifice  we  have 
made. 

I  said  we  had  reached  Leghorn  ;  and  my  first  in 
quiry  was  for  the  residence  of  this  recently  united 
couple,  for  the  first  moon  had  not  yet  waned  on 
their  wedded  life.  I  found  them  in  a  quiet,  vine- 
clad  villa,  crowning  an  eminence  that  swells  up 
among  the  green  hills  which  overlook  the  town.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  saloon,  with  a  volume  of  Burns 
in  his  hand  ;  she  was  at  the  harp,  giving  the  over 
flowings  of  her  happy  heart  to  its  warbling  melo 
dies. 

They  received  me  as  if  I  had  been  the  embodied 
spirit  of  their  enjoyment ;  and  when  obliged  to  leave 
them,  they  accompanied  me  down  through  the  em 
bowered  walk  of  the  garden  to  its  gate ;  and,  in  part 
ing,  he  ascribed  the  happiness  of  his  condition  to 
my  friendly  offices — and  she,  pointing  to  the  green 
leaves,  told  me  that  these  might  wither,  but  that 
there  was  a  grateful  remembrance  of  my  kindness  in 
her  heart  that  would  never  fade. 


144  ITALY   AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

I  assured  her  the  obligations  were  on  my  part — 
that  I  was  happy  in  seeing  her  so ;  and,  though  I  had 

not  exacted  that  bridal  kiss,  yet and  here  she 

liquidated  the  claim,  before  the  sentence  that  might 
have  involved  it  could  be  uttered.  Reader,  forgive 
that  indiscretion :  it  was  not  my  fault ;  for  what  I 
said  was  wholly  without  an  intended  meaning : 
neither  was  it  hers;  for  it  was  the  overflowing  of 
irrepressible  gratitude.  I  broke  from  them,  and, 
wending  my  solitary  way  back  to  town,  felt,  for  once 
at  least,  very  much  dissatisfied  with  a  single  life. 

The  next  morning  we  started  for  Pisa ; — but  shall 
I  pass  over  the  night  that  intervened  ?  It  was  not  a 
night  of  soft  dreams  and  delicious  visions;  it  was 
more  like  the  last  hours  of  one  expiring  on  the  rack. 
I  had  supped  upon  lobster,  and  it  lay  upon  the  func 
tions  that  should  have  overmastered  it,  like  an  indis- 
solvable  rock.  I  had  every  reason,  from  previous 
experience,  to  apprehend  such  a  result ;  but  such  a 
silly  compound  is  human  nature,  I  must  try  again 
the  tempting  bait ;  and  dearly  did  I  pay  back  in 
penitence  the  price  of  my  weakness. 

I  never  could  persuade  myself  that  this  animal 
was  originally  intended  to  be  eaten ;  I  rather  inclined 
to  the  belief,  and  am  now  fully  confirmed  in  it,  that 
he  was  intended  as  a  visible  personation  of  the  Evil 
One.  But  I  must  confess,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  1 
owe  this  deformity  of  the  deep  an  old  grudge ;  for 
my  nurse,  when  I  was  yet  a  child,  ran  at  me  with 


REMEMBRANCES   OF    CHILDHOOD.  14:5 

one  of  them  twisting  and  sprawling  in  her  hand.  I 
was  so  terrified,  that  for  a  year  there  was  no  percep 
tible  growth  in  body,  bone,  or  limb  ;  and  this  is  the 
reason  that  I  have  never  reached  the  stature  to  which 
my  lineage  entitled  me. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  think  this  a  small  mat 
ter,  but  I  can  assure  him  I  do  not ;  for  there  is  in 
man  an  innate  reverence  for  height.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  admiring  wonder  with  which  I  listened 
as  my  nurse  told  me  of  the  giant  who  stepped  over 
mountains  and  seas  as  if  they  had  been  mere  ant 
hills  and  puddles ;  and  who  shook  the  pea-vines  and 
plum-trees  that  grew  in  the  moon !  Dear  woman  ! 
I  forgive  her  the  wrong  she  did  me  in  the  fright,  for 
the  marvellous  creations  that  laughed  and  wept, 
whispered  and  thundered  through  her  stories.  If 
there  is  about  me  the  least  touch  of  romance,  the" 
least  love  of  the  wonderful,  I  owe  it  all  to  her :  she 
filled  my  infant  dreams  with  beings  of  another  order, 
with  a  love  and  madness  that  are  not  ours,  with  ex 
ultations  and  agonies  that  belong  not  to  man,  with 
the  sigh  of  winds  and  the  shout  of  torrents  that  move 
not  on  this  earth.  But  I  forget  the  lobster :  if  I 
ever  again,  on  going  to  rest,  eat  of  another — meat, 
claw,  or  feeler  of  him — may  I  awake  in  his  like 
ness! 

I 


ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 


CHAPTER   V. 

LOOK  'round  below 

On  ARNO'S  vale,  where  the  dove-colored  oxen 
Are  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines ; 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness : — and  on  thee, 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers. 

ROGERS. 

CITY  OF  PISA MAGNIFICENCE  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL VIOLATIONS  OF  TASTE 

POINTED  OUT GALILEO  AND  THE  LAMP BEAUTIES  OF  THE  BAPTISTRY 

THE  LEANING  TOWER EXTENT  OF  HUMAN  CREDULITY THE  CAMPO 

SANTO  OF  PISA SOIL  FROM  THE  HOLY  LAND SIGNS  OF  ANTIQUITY 

AND  DECAY THE  ANCESTRY  OF  PISA — HER  ANCIENT  GLORY CAUSES 

OF  DECAY A  WARNING  TO  THE  WORLD  OF  THE  WEST THE  DISAS 
TERS  OF  DISUNION  —  DANGERS  APPREHENDED  FROM  SLAVERY DUTY 

TO   AFRICA. 

THE  next  day,  taking  a  light,  compact  carriage, 
drawn  by  two  Tuscan  horses  of  vigorous  limb  and 
free  spirit,  we  crossed  the  wide  plain  which  borders, 
in  rampant  fertility,  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  and  ar 
rived  at  Pisa.  Our  first  and  most  eager  visit  was 
paid  to  the  Cathedral  and  its  contiguous  monuments  ; 
for  we  were  like  an  ambitious  man  looking  out  for  a 
wife,  who  glances  about  at  once  for  the  queen  of  the 
circle. 

And,  after  all,  this  may  not  be  so  injudicious  a 


PISA   AND   ITS   CATHEDRAL.  147 

method  as  might  at  first  seem ;  for,  if  the  arrow 
fails  of  reaching  the  bird  on  the  topmost  twig  of  the 
tree,  it  may  strike  one  beneath  ;  and  it  is  not  always 
the  highest  bird  that  has  the  sweetest  voice  and  the 
most  beautiful  plumage.  The  wild-goose  always  flies 
high ;  the  hawk  and  crow  rest  on  lofty  and  barren 
limbs,  except  when  engaged  in  rapine  and  plunder ; 
they  then,  like  human  nature  in  the  practice  of  vice, 
descend ;  but  they  have  this  advantage  over  us — they 
can  remount ;  but  man,  once  in  the  slough,  is  ever 
apt  to  find  there  his  home  and  his  grave. 

It  is  strange  that  a  look  for  the  Cathedral  should 
have  brought  me  into  this  moral  mire,  for  nothing 
can  be  more  unlike  it,  as  it  is  not  only  invested  with 
the  inspiring  sentiments  of  its  design,  but  with  a 
deep  charm  caught  from  the  silent  lapse  of  six  cen 
turies.  Its  dimensions,  grand  and  colossal,  —  its 
architecture,  verging  upon  the  massive  force  of  the 
Gothic, — its  material,  too  firm  and  enduring  to  be 
corroded  by  time, — its  lofty  doors  of  solid  bronze, 
wrought  into  a  maze  of  expressive  relief, — its  long, 
sweeping  aisles,  separated  only  by  stately  columns  of 
Oriental  granite  and  marble, — its  pavement,  laid  in 
rich  Mosaic,  and  the  rosy  light  streaming  through 
the  stained  windows,  and  bathing  every  object  in 
hues  of  softest  vermilion, — all  impress  the  stranger 
with  the  costly  magnificence  of  this  sacred  pile. 

Yet,  with  all  these  excellencies,  the  Cathedral  has 
defects,  and  violations  of  taste  which  cannot  escape 


148  ITALY   AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

the  most  untutored  eye.  The  peristyle  of  the  central 
nave,  instead  of  being  the  support  of  incongruous 
arches,  ought  to  pillar  at  once  a  deep  dome  consonant 
with  its  own  majesty;  and  the  shafts  of  the  side 
aisles,  instead  of  wandering  off  into  the  form  of  a 
cross,  should  have  preserved  their  rectilineal  posi 
tion,  and  maintained,  as  far  as  compatible  with  the 
strange  mixture  of  their  orders,  the  unity  and  har 
mony  of  the  main  design. 

The  marble  pulpit,  instead  of  reposing  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  statue,  bending  in  agony  under  its 
pressing  weight,  should  rest  upon  some  form  more 
substantial,  more  calm,  more  in  keeping  with  the 
spot  and  the  serene  truths  which  it  unfolds ;  and  the 
satyrs  which  figure  on  the  tombs  of  the  great,  look 
as  if  they  were  holding  a  revelry  over  death :  one 
would  not  wish  to  awake  at  the  last  day  under  the 
sneering  laughter  of  such  beings. 

It  was  in  this  metropolitan  church  of  Pisa  that 
Galileo  was  standing  one  day,  when  he  observed  a 
lamp  which  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  and 
which  had  been  disturbed  by  accident,  swinging 
backward  and  forward.  This  was  a  thing  so  com 
mon,  that  thousands  no  doubt  had  observed  it  before; 
but  Galileo,  struck  with  the  regularity  with  which  it 
moved  backward  and  forward,  reflected  on  it,  and 
perfected  the  method,  now  in  use,  of  measuring  time 
by  means  of  the  pendulum. 

The  Baptistry,  standing  in  sell-relying 


THE   LEANING    TOWER.  149 

from  the  Cathedral,  presents  a  lofty  rotunda,  reared 
of  the  most  precious  material,  and  combining  an  as 
semblage  of  beauties  and  blemishes  unequalled  in 
any  other  monument  of  the  middle  ages.  Standing 
in  the  centre,  and  looking  up  through  the  showering 
expression  of  its  gorgeous  features,  you  are  as  much 
at  a  loss  whether  to  admire  and  acquit,  or  censure 
and  condemn,  as  was  the  susceptible  judge,  pro 
nouncing  sentence  on  an  erring  woman  whose  beauty 
had  touched  his  heart  and  bewildered  his  oath. 

The  profusion  of  ornaments — arches  swelling  over 
arches  to  no  visible  purpose,  and  columns  towering 
above  columns,  without  an  object,  with  the  splendors 
of  the  dome,  floating,  like  Mohammed's  coffin,  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth,  dazzle  your  vision,  and  over 
power  your  critical  judgment.  Nor  is  your  perplex 
ing  wonder  diminished,  when  told  that  this  magnifi 
cent  pile  is  consecrated  to  the  christening  of  those 
little  beings  that  have  just  budded  to  the  light.  The 
tomb  of  Agamemnon  was  an  appropriate  memorial 
of  his  greatness,  a  befitting  emblem  of  his  fame; 
but  this  sumptuous  mass  towers  immeasurably  above 
its  uses. 

]STear  by  stands  the  Campanile,  or  Leaning  Tower, 
celebrated  alike  for  the  beauty  of  its  architecture  and 
the  mystery  of  its  inclination.  Eight  peristyles,  ris 
ing  over  each  other  in  lightness  and  grace  to  the 
summit,  relieve  the  solitude  of  its  elevation,  and  ele 
gantly  robe  its  naked  majesty.  You  ascend  to  the 


150  ITALY   AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

top  on  a  spiral  stairway  leading  steeply  up  through 
the  interior ;  and,  as  you  emerge  to  the  light,  at  an 
elevation  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  feet,  feel  amply 
compensated  for  the  fatigues  of  the  ascent,  in  the 
wide  and  rich  prospect  spread  beneath. 

From  the  broad  and  fertile  valley  through  which 
the  Arno  rolls  its  waters,  the  eye  turns  in  wilder 
wonder  to  the  lofty  peaks  of  the  Apennines,  pier 
cing  the  distant  sky,  or  to  the  waves  of  the  Mediter 
ranean,  ever  rolling  and  rejoicing  in  their  light  and 
strength.  The  inclination  of  this  tower  has  been 
ascribed,  by  some,  to  an  eccentricity  of  taste  in  the 
architect,  but  it  more  probably  lost  its  perpendicular 
in  the  unequal  settling  of  the  foundation.  I  state 
this  reasonable  conjecture  reluctantly  ;  for,  so  far  as 
it  may  have  influence,  it  must  mar  the  beautiful  mys 
tery  that  has  hung  for  ages  around  this  monument, 
like  a  soft  cloud  veiling  a  mountain  pinnacle.  It  has 
caught  a  mysterious  charm  from  the  silent  lapse  of 
centuries. 

People  like  so  dearly  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  find 
so  much  pleasure  in  the  miraculous,  that  I  would 
not,  were  it  in  my  power,  destroy  their  belief  in  a 
ghost,  the  sea-serpent,  or  the  man  in  the  moon.  I 
regret  that  the  recent  discoveries  in  that  orb  have 
been  confessed  a  hoax ;  they  were  fast  gaining  cre 
dence,  and  would  soon  have  passed  as  genuine  and 
modest,  not  excepting  even  that  crystal  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles  in  length,  and  those  wi 


CAMPO   SANTO    OF   PISA.  151 

men-bats  !  Were  people  as  credulous  when  informed 
of  their  weaknesses  and  errors,  as  they  are  when  told 
of  the  antics  of  a  hobgoblin  or  the  rappings  of  a 
wandering  spirit,  what  blushes  and  dismay  it  would 
spread  upon  the  face  of  a  seli-complacent  world  ! 

At  a  slight  remove  from  the  Cathedral,  and  in 
harmony  with  its  sacred  associations,  lies  the  Campo 
Santo,  or  burial-place  of  the  Pisans.  It  is  an  oblong 
square,  tastefully  walled  in,  and  affording,  around 
the  interior,  a  paved  walk,  covered  with  gracefully 
springing  arcades,  ornamented  with  vivid  frescoes, 
where  the  footstep  of  Beauty  bounds  along  lightly  as 
if  decay  and  death  were  not  there. 

Let  nature  be  cheerful  about  our  tombs ;  let  the 
bird  sing  and  the  violet  bloom — but  let  man  bring 
only  the  tribute  of  his  tears.  He  will  soon  need 
himself  this  tender  token  of  regard  :  there  is  no  fel 
lowship  in  the  grave ;  death  gives  us  but  one  em 
brace,  and  that  so  cold  and  full  of  change,  that  they 
who  have  known  us  will  know  us  no  more  ! 

The  earth  of  this  cemetery  was  brought  from  Pal 
estine  in  the  Pisan  galleys,  instead  of  the  living  be 
ings  whom  they  had  taken  out  in  Lanfranchi's  cru 
sade.  It  is  held  in  such  estimation,  that  the  spirit 
which  here  resigns  its  mortal  tenement  is  supposed 
to  be  far  on  its  way  to  that  land  of  which  this  is  only 
the  faint  type. 

"Were  it  the  general  faith  of  mankind  that  there 
were  some  absolving  soil  through  which  we  might 


152  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

all  pass  at  last  purified  to  the  better  country,  many, 
indeed,  would  think  lightly  of  it  in  their  hours  of 
health,  but  in  the  day  of  death  it  would  be  their  only 
object  of  solicitude.  Why,  then,  turn  from  that 
fountain  opened  in  Judah  and  Jerusalem,  whose  wa 
ters  can  wash  out  the  deepest  stains,  and  from  which 
the  soul  may  pass  as  without  spot  or  wrinkle,  or  any 
such  thing,  to  the  bosom  of  its  Saviour  ? 

Decay  and  ruin  have  now  cast  their  deep,  sepul 
chral  shadows  over  all  the  pride  and  magnificence 
of  the  Pisans.  Their  palaces  have  crumbled,  their 
lights  of  science  have  been  extinguished,  their  com 
merce  has  departed,  their  population  has  gone  down 
to  the  grave,  and  even  their  beautiful  harbor,  where 
once  floated  innumerable  ships,  the  sands  of  the 
Arno  have  filled,  till  the  weeds  and  wild  grass  wave 
there,  as  if  it  had  ever  been  a  stranger  to  the  keel 
and  oar. 

Silence  reigns  in  the  untrodden  streets,  and  the 
lofty  arches  of  her  marble  bridge,  which  once  echoed 
to  the  stirring  tread  of  thousands,  are  now  gloomily 
still  as  the  trees  that  bend  in  darkness  over  the 
Stygian  flood.  Looking  upon  Pisa,  you  feel  as  you 
would  were  you  bending  over  the  grave  of  the  one 
you  love ;  you  almost  forget  the  beauty  that  remains 
in  the  light  and  charms  that  are  fled.  Could  we  lift 
but  one  veil,  it  would  be  that  which  conceals  the 
Past! 

The  antiquity  of  Pisa  is  not  a  subject  of  greater 


ANCIENT   GLORY   OF   PISA.  153 

curiosity  to  you  than  of  pride  to  its  inhabitants. 
They  trace  their  origin  to  the  veins  and  adventures 
of  a  few  brave  Greeks,  who,  after  the  results  of  the 
Trojan  war,  wandered  hither  from  the  banks  of  the 
Alpheus ;  and  this  high  descent,  seemingly  so  full 
of  vanity  and  fable,  is  partially  confirmed  by  the 
authority  of  Strabo.  The  separate  dignity  and  polit 
ical  existence  of  Pisa  were  at  length  lost  in  the  all-ab 
sorbing  power  of  Rome ;  but  when  that  overgrown 
despotism  had  fallen  in  ruins,  and  left  only  darkness 
and  crime  in  its  place,  Pisa  came  forth  in  the  form 
of  a  Republic,  and,  so  far  from  evincing  the  feeble 
ness  of  age,  exhibited  the  energies  of  exulting  youth. 

Corsica  and  Sardinia  bowed  to  her  prowess ;  Na 
ples  and  Palermo  obeyed  her  dictates  ;  and  even 
Carthage  surrendered  the  treasures  of  its  pride  and 
fame.  Her  voice  was  heard  in  the  shape  of  law 
among  the  hills  of  Palestine,  and  inspired  a  submis 
sive  respect  along  the  castled  banks  of  the  Tiber. 
Her  eminence  in  letters,  her  achievements  in  the 
arts,  no  less  than  the  triumphs  of  her  arms,  excited 
the  warm  wonder  of  mankind,  broke  up  the  sleep  of 
surrounding  nations,  and  covered  Italy  with  the 
splendors  of  a  fresh  morn. 

But  this  day-spring,  even  before  it  waxed  to  its 
meridian,  was  doomed  to  disaster ; — the  bright  star 
had  not  yet  reached  its  zenith,  when  Florence,  like 
a  hostile  orb  rising  in  an  opposite  direction,  encoun 
tered  it  in  the  full  heaven  : — it  fell,  still  flashing  with 


154  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

light  as  it  sunk  to  its  grave.  Its  fate  was  like  that 
of  all  the  Republics  of  Greece,  and  flowed  from  the 
same  source — a  spirit  of  fratricidal  jealousy.  It  was 
this  which  laid  Thebes  in  ruins,  overthrew  the  tow 
ers  of  Memphis,  filled  the  Pagodas  of  Palibothra 
with  woe,  and  drove  the  plough-share  of  ruin  over 
the  foundations  of  Carthage. 

This  spirit  of  jealous  rivalry  has  been  the  bane  of 
all  Republics,  and  the  prime  source  of  their  calami- 
tics.  It  has  driven  Liberty  out  of  the  Old  World — 
may  it  not  expel  her  from  the  New  !  Let  the  rival 
States  of  America  realize,  if  their  present  bond  of 
union  should  be  dissolved,  what  must  be  the  conse 
quence.  It  would  be  a  miracle  in  the  experience  of 
man,  if  mutual  bloodshed  did  not  ensue.  Rivalry? 
jealousy,  and  sectional  prejudice  would  bring  on  col 
lision  and  disaster ;  the  alienated  States  would  rush 
in  conflict ;  and  their  slaughtered  heaps  would  be 
the  funeral  pyre  of  Freedom ! 

That  man  who  talks  to  us  of  liberty  and  peace 
when  the  Union  has  been  broken  up,  is  infected  with 
treason  or  insanity.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  com 
posure  amid  the  throes  of  the  earthquake,  or  of  safety 
on  the  flaming  verge  of  the  volcano.  All  history 
gives  his  flattering  prediction  the  lie,  and  what  wo 
still  see  in  human  nature  stamps  it  with  an  insane 
absurdity.  Union  gone,  every  thing  great  and  good 
must  go  with  it :  the  advocates  of  free  institutions 
Would  be  covered  with  confusion ;  while  the  very 


155 


graves  of  despotism  would  give  up  their  dead  in  exul 
tation.  Let,  then,  the  motto  of  every  American  be,  My 
country  as  a  whole, — not  the  North  or  the  South,  not 
the  East  or  the  "West, — but  my  country  as  a  great 
and  glorious  WHOLE.  Let  rivers  roll  and  mountains 
swell  to  diversify  its  surface,  but  over  all  the  pat 
riotic  pride  and  sympathies  of  the  American  heart 
must  flow,  undistinguishing  and  deep,  as  one  united 
republican  realm  of  the  free. 

Alas,  my  country !  it  is  now  thy  sin, 

And  ought  to  be  thy  grief,  remorse,  and  shame — 

That  thou,  a  land  of  freedom,  hast  within 

Thy  bosom  those  on  whom  thou  hast  no  claim 

But  that  of  rapine.     Dost  thou  think  to  screen 
Thy  guilt  ?  yet  prate  of  liberty  ? — yet  drain 

Thy  thankless  bread  from  out  the  captive's  blood  ? 

Up  !  place  them  on  the  homeward-heaving  flood ! 

Oh,  Africa!  thy  captive  sons  ere  long 

Shall  break  their  chains  and  hasten  home  to  thee ; 

Already  seems  to  float  their  freedom-song 

In  every  breeze  that  westward  sweeps  the  sea — 

There  shall  they  live  thy  plantain  bowers  among — 
A  nation  of  the  generous,  good,  and  free : 

Then  let  that  heart  sink  cold  and  motionless 

That  pants  again  to  traffic  in  thy  flesh. 


156  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

DOWN  by  the  City  of  Hermits,  and,  ere  long, 
The  venerable  woods  of  VALLOMBROSA  : 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  TUSCAN  Sea, 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  Rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
FLORENCE  and  PISA — who  have  given  him  fame. 

Rogers'  Italy 

CUSTOM-HOUSE  INQUISITORS  OF  LUCCA WE  ARE    ROBBED  OF  OUR  CIGARS 

WE  MORALIZE    LIKE    A    PHILOSOPHER — LUCCA    FROM    THE    MOUNTAINS 

GROUPS  OF  PEASANTRY A  JOYOUS  WEDDING-PARTY THE  CROAKINGS  OK 

A    BACHELOR THE    GOOD    OFFICES    HE    FILLS   TO    SOCIETY VIRTUES    OK 

THE  LUCOHESE    CITIZENS LIBERTY  IN  THE    MOUNTAINS A  BETTER    DES 
TINY  FOR  MAN FUTURE  LIBERTY,  FRATERNITY,  AND  PEACE A    TRIBUTE 

TO    DEPARTED    YOUTH,    BEAUTY,    AND     GENIUS TRIUMPHING    IN     DEATH 

THROUGH  FAITH  IN  CHRIST. 

LEAVING  Pisa  on  our  way  to  Florence,  a  short  drive 
brought  us  to  the  Lucchese  border,  where  £ur  pass 
ports  were  demanded  by  an  officer  of  the  police,  who 
seemed  to  feel  the  full  dignity  of  his  occupation.  When 
these  had  undergone  the  inquisition,  our  trunks  were 
taken  down  and  overhauled ;  the  search  resulted  in 
the  discovery  of  a  box  of  cigars,  which  were  at  once 
pronounced  contraband.  It  was  hard  to  give  up  these 
cigars,  especially  when  we  knew  these  drones  would 
so  soon  be  enjoying  their  fragrance,  whilo  we,  their 


CIGARS    LOST,    PHILOSOPHY    SERVED.  157 

rightful  owners,  would  perhaps  be  smoking  any  vile 
twist  of  the  weed  that  we  might  fall  in  with. 

There  is  something  in  a  good  cigar  peculiarly  en 
dearing  and  precious  to  those  habituated  to  it ;  it  is 
not  so  much  the  positive  happiness  it  can  afford,  as 
its  power  to  soothe  irritation,  and  calm  the  nervous 
anxieties  of  those  to  whom  it  has  become  as  a  neces 
sary  of  life.  It  is  to  the  body  what  philosophy  is  to 
the  mind — a  source  of  tranquillity.  We  never  see  an 
old  man,  after  the  toils  of  the  day  are  over,  calmly 
enjoying  his  pipe  without  a  sentiment  of  pleasure  ; 
but  to  see  a  young  man  puffing  and  prattling,  creates 
a  very  different  feeling.  With  the  one  it  is  a  habit 
endeared  and  consecrated  by  time ;  with  the  other  it 
is  mere  affectation,  or  a  vicious  indulgence  demanded 
neither  by  his  cares  nor  his  years. 

Resuming  our  seats,  it  was  some  time  before  a  loud 
word  broke  the  sullen  silence  which  followed  the  loss 
of  the  cigars.  There  was  enough  of  the  soft  and 
beautiful  in  the  scene  around  to  wean  one,  as  it 
would  seem,  from  a  much  deeper  calamity,  but  it 
had  no  such  beguiling  effect  over  our  sorrow.  The 
sun  went  down  unobserved ;  twilight  came  on  with 
its  purple  charm  unnoticed,  and  the  bird  of  night 
poured  its  melodyon  unheeding  ears.  Our  thoughts, 
feelings,  and  sympathies  were  hovering  in  vain  regret 
over  the  loss  we  had  sustained — a  loss,  after  all,  too 
trivial  for  a  sober  thought. 

This  unfolds  one  of  the  cardinal  principles  of  our 


158  ITALY    AND   THE    ITALIANS. 

nature.  We  are  all  philosophers  in  great  misfortunes, 
but  lose  our  equanimity  in  trifles.  The  man  of  busi 
ness  will  hear  of  the  failure  of  a  house  deeply  in  his 
debt,  or  of  the  loss  of  a  ship  at  sea,  and  dine  with  his 
friend  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  ;  but  if  filched  out 
of  a  few  dollars  by  some  designing  knave,  he  frets, 
accuses  his  credulity,  and  half  believes  there  is  no 
honesty  in  the  world.  The  man  of  refinement  will 
hear  that  his  horse  has  been  stolen,  or  struck  by 
lightning,  and  composedly  purchase  himself  another ; 
but  if  some  rogue  has  bobbed  his  flowing  tail,  he 
seizes  his  loaded  whip,  determined  to  flog  every  boy 
that  shall  in  future  approach  his  stable. 

We  have  seen  a  man  stand  unmoved  while  the 
flames  enveloped  his  richly  furnished  dwelling,  and 
then  be  on  the  verge  of  suicide  in  consequence  of 
having  broken  out  one  of  his  front  teeth.  We  have 
seen  a  lady  witness,  without  an  apparent  emotion, 
the  crash  and  ruin  of  her  carriage,  and  smilingly 
order  another ;  and  then,  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger, 
dismiss  all  her  servants,  because  the  note  which  By 
ron  wrote  her  could  not  be  found.  The  truth  is,  we 
fret  ourselves  to  death  about  trifles  ;  great  calamities 
we  endure  with  becoming  fortitude,  but  little  crosses 
and  disappointments  worry  us  just  in  proportion  to 
their  insignificance.  Our  feelings  are  like  streams 
which  chafe  most  where  the  water  is  the  shallowest. 

Ascending  a  circling  range  of  lofty  elevations, 
Lucca  presented  itself  below,  in  the  midst  of  a  broad 


GROUPS  OF  THE  PEASANTRY.  159 

verdant  valley,  around  which  nature  had  cast  this 
mountain  barrier.  Daylight  yet  lingered  sufficient 
to  betray  its  embracing  wall,  with  its  broad,  con 
tinuous  parapet,  and  embowering  belt  of  trees. 
The  tumult  of  the  city  had  subsided,  or  partially 
passed  off  with  the  peasantry,  who  were  seen  in 
every  direction  wending  their  way  to  their  distant 
homes. 

The  burdens  they  were  bearing  showed  that  their 
arrival  would  make  many  a  heart  glad  around  their 
hearths ;  these  were  not  luxuries,  or  any  of  the  ex 
travagancies  of  pride  and  variety,  but  simple,  ser 
viceable  articles,  such  as  affection,  with  the  most 
slender  means,  would  procure.  The  brother  had  not 
forgotten  his  fond  sister ;  the  son  had  remembered 
his  widowed  mother,  now  waiting  the  return  of  her 
orphan-boy ;  and  the  father  had  numbered  over  his 
children  again  to  see  that  he  had  procured  for  each 
some  gift ;  nor  was  she,  who  had  been  newly 
arranging  the  coarse  furniture  of  the  cabin,  and 
trying  to  create  a  pleasurable  surprise  in  the  more 
comfortable  appearance  of  the  household,  beyond 
the  recollections  and  tokens  of  that  conjugal  devoted 
heart. 

"  At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
The  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  thro' 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  and  glees. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 


160  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  -weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil." 

Leaving  our  passports  with  the  police  at  the  gate, 
we  passed  to  the  Hotel  Royal  de  1'Europe,  an  ex 
tensive  establishment,  exceedingly  well  kept,  and 
usually  quiet,  but  which  had  now  been  rendered 
rather  tumultuous,  and  extremely  gay  by  the  festivi 
ties  of  a  wedding  party.  They  were  full  of  song, 
anecdote,  and  repartee ;  and  their  occasional  bursts 
of  laughter  shook  the  whole  building  with  their  ex 
plosive  energy. 

Why  cannot  people  enter  into  the  marriage  state 
without  such  a  troublesome  exhibition  of  joy?  "We 
see  nothing  in  the  occasion  calculated  to  inspire  mirth, 
but  on  the  contrary,  much  that  might  justly  awaken 
solicitude  and  tears.  Who  can  tell  what  may  betide  ? 
That  nuptial  wreath  may  not  yet  have  faded  when 
the  eye  that  now  flashes  beneath  its  fragrant  bloora 
may  be  closed  in  death  !  That  costly  bridal  dress, 
enriching  and  betraying  the  beautiful  form,  may  not 
yet  have  received  a  soil  from  time  or  an  invasion 
from  fickle  fashion,  when  it  must  be  laid  aside  for 
the  pulseless  shroud  !  and  those  who  have  now  met 
to  congratulate  and  make  merry,  may,  ere  another 
moon  shall  wane,  meet  to  s}*mpathize  and  mourn  ! 

But  this,  you  will  say,  is  like  a  crusty  old  bachelor, 
who  never  furnishes  such  an  occasion  of  rejoicing 


USES    OF    AN    OLD    BACHELOR.  161 

himself  by  submitting  to  the  chains  of  Hymen,  and 
croaks  when  others  do.  Now  I  take  this  occasion  to 
say  in  behalf  of  the  whole  bacheloric  fraternity,  that 
the  flings  so  often  thrown  out  against  us  are  by  no 
means  deserved.  The  life  of  a  bachelor  is  as  full  of 
benevolence  as  the  sun  is  of  light ;  wherever  he  goes 
he  is  regarded  as  common  property,  or  rather  a  com 
mon  blessing,  and  all  avail  themselves  of  his  kind 
ness,  indulgence,  and  simplicity  as  freely  as  they 
breathe  the  atmosphere.  There  is  not  a  mother  who 
does  not  look  upon  him  as  the  husband  of  her  daugh 
ter,  provided  her  more  youthful  expectations  shall  be 
disappointed  elsewhere. 

He  is  considered  a  resource  against  all  contingen 
cies  of  this  kind  ;  and  then  the  widows,  too,  they  re 
gard  him  as  one  providentially  left  in  this  state  to 
meet  their  condition.  Besides  this,  the  little  chil 
dren  of  the  whole  neighborhood  look  to  him  as  a  sort 
of  common  uncle ;  they  run  to  meet  him  as  he  walks ; 
gather  around  his  chair  as  he  sits,  climb  his  knees, 
finger  his  locks,  pick  out  his  breast-pin,  and  get  his 
watch  out  of  his  pocket  to  their  ear,  and  then  they 
want  to  know  when  he  is  going  to  take  another  ride 
in  his  carryall,  when  he  is  going  again  to  Mrs.  Bus 
tle's  fancy  shop,  or  Mrs.  Filbert's  confectionery.  He, 
with  a  benevolence  that  melts  like  dew  on  the  tender 
plants,  instead  of  feeling  himself  annoyed,  has  a 
smile,  a  kiss,  and  a  promise  for  each  and  for  all. 
And  he  will  keep  that  promise,  too  ;  he  is  the  only 


1G2  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

being  in  the  world  who  keeps  his  promises  to  chil 
dren. 

But  he  is  not  only  this  kind  and  benevolent  being, 
when  those  around  him  are  in  health,  but  more  es 
pecially  so,  when  sickness  has  overtaken  any  of  them. 
He  will  hunt  all  day  to  find  a  bird  that  may  suit  the 
weak  or  fastidious  stomach  of  the  patient ;  and  though 
after  all  this  pains-taking,  not  a  bone  of  it  may  be 
picked,  yet  he  is  just  as  ready  to  start  the  next  day 
and  look  up  another :  and  all  this  is  done  for  wife, 
widow,  or  child  alike. 

If  death  renders  vain  these  kind  attentions,  his 
benevolence  flows  off  in  another  channel.  Those 
mourning  dresses,  which  were  beyond  the  means  of 
the  mourner,  but  not  beyond  her  grief,  have  been, 
unbeknown  to  others,  supplied  by  him  ;  for  he  letteth 
not  his  left  hand  know  what  his  right  hand  doeth. 
Often  the  simple  slab  is  erected  by  him,  and  still 
oftener  those  left  in  orphanage  and  want  share  the 
affection  and  solicitude  of  his  paternal  heart.  Were 
his  hearth  large  enough  they  would  all  be  grouped 
about  it,  a  group  now  more  dear  to  him  as  their  other 
supports  and  hopes  have  been  broken. 

Such  are  the  feelings,  and  such  the  benevolent 
habits  of  the  good  old  bachelor.  He  is  a  blessing 
to  the  community  in  which  he  lives.  He  is  a  hus 
band  for  all  the  widows,  and  all  those  disappointed 
elsewhere  ;  he  is  the  indulgent  uncle  of  all  the  chil 
dren  ;  he  attends  to  the  sick,  buries  the  dead,  and 


VIRTUES   OF   THE   LUCCHESE. 


takes  care  of  the  living.  Blessings  on  him ;  bless 
ings  on  his  occupation ;  blessings  on  his  memory ; 
and  be  his  the  blessing  of  a  patient  cherishing  wife 
long  before  he  shall  be  under  the  sod. 

There  is  but  little  in  Lucca  to  detain  the  curious 
traveller.  The  cathedral  is  in  imitation  of  the  one  at 
Pisa,  but  inferior  in  every  respect ;  the  royal  palace, 
in  the  absence  of  architectural  pretensions,  has  one 
feature  to  recommend  it — :every  article  of  its  superb 
furniture  is  the  work  of  Lucchese  artisans.  The  citi 
zens  are  remarkable  for  their  industry,  virtue,  and 
love  of  liberty  ;  the  peasantry,  especially  those  occu 
pying  the  woody  steeps,  are  hardy,  and  represent  a 
race  that  gloried  in  their  independence.  They  sub 
sist  mainly  on  the  chestnut,  which  grows  here  very 
large ;  and  when  boiled  or  roasted,  is  very  nutritious. 

On  this  simple  fare  their  spirits  are  always  light 
and  buoyant,  and  notwithstanding  the  exertions  of 
despotism,  their  limbs  are  still  fetterless  and  free  as 
the  winds  that  visit  their  lofty  dwellings.  Those  in 
the  vales,  and  the  lowlands  of  the  Serchio,  may  clank 
the  chain,  but  the  songs  of  freedom  will  still  be 
echoed  about  the  stupendous  steeps  of  the  Apennines. 
Their  rallying-call  is  the  loud  thunder,  their  spears 
are  tipped  with  lightning,  and  their  rush  is  like  that 
of  the  torrent  rolling  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  rent 
cloud. 

The  car  of  despotism  has  rolled  in  triumph  over 
all  the  peopled  plains  of  the  civilized  world,  but  on 


164  ITALY    AND   THE   ITALIANS. 

the  rugged  mountains,  and  about  the  inaccessible 
cliffs,  there  have  ever  been  those  who  have  main 
tained  their  independence ;  who  have  kept  the  beacon- 
lights  of  freedom  constantly  burning — watch-fires, 
that  with  more  than  a  comet's  power  have  cast  their 
ominous  light  into  the  pale  recesses  of  kings.  When 
tyranny  shall  have  extinguished  these,  it  will  have 
achieved  its  last  triumph,  and  liberty  lost  its  last  hope. 
But  they  are  not  thus  to  be  extinguished ;  a  better 
destiny  awaits  human  nature. 

Man  shall  not  always  mourn,  and  lowly  bend 
His  neck  to  pave  a  pampered  despot's  way ; 

His  spirit  "  cribbed,  confined,"  will  yet  ascend, 
As  eagles  soar  towards  the  source  of  day: 

His  freedom-shout  shall  with  his  torrents  blend, 
And  fill  Imperial  Senates  with  dismay, 

While  on  the  wall  an  unseen  hand  will  fling 

The  mystic  words  that  blanched  Assyria's  king. 

Like  him  disowned  of  God,  denounced,  discrowned, 
Monarchs  shall  mock  the  diadems  they  wore ; 

Nor  parasite  nor  crouching  slave  be  found 

Where  satraps  knelt  and  nations  bowed  before ; 

While  o'er  the  mount,  the  river,  plain,  and  sea, 

Ascends  to  God  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

Spirit  of  Liberty !  thou  art  endowed 

With  such  an  energy  as  will  compel 
This  earth  to  thy  embrace :  monarchs  have  bowed 

To  thee,  and  must,  or  hear  their  hurried  knell ! 

Spirit  of  Liberty !  thy  sacred  light 

Streams  up  the  heaven  to  herald  in  the  il:iy 


FUTURE   FRATERNITY   AND   PEACE.  165 


When  roused-up  nations,  resting  from  the  fight 

And  carnage  of  the  field,  shall  meekly  lay 
Their  clashing  weapons  by,  no  more  to  blight 
And  mar  that  form  which  God  hath  clothed  with  light. 

Then  will  the  clarion,  voiceless  as  the  grave, 
No  more  arouse  the  war-steed  with  its  breath, 

Nor  summon  forth  the  unreturning  brave, 

Nor  peal  its  larums  through  the  ranks  of  death — 

But  through  the  world  shall  sound  the  slave's  release, 

And  loud  hosannas  to  the  Prince  of  Peace. 


After  a  page  or  two  more  on  Florence,  abruptly  suspended 
in  the  midst  of  a  sentence,  the  Notes  on  Italy  were  never  re 
sumed  by  Mr.  Colton ;  and  they  were  left  to  the  day  of  his 
death  uncorrected,  just  as  he  jotted  them  down  in  the  leaves  of 
his  Journal.  The  work  of  the  Editor  in  putting  the  foregoing 
Notes  into  shape,  as  well  as  those  we  have  called  "  The  Sea  and 
the  Sailor,"  has  been  not  unlike  that  of  the  painter  in  restoring 
an  old  picture,  or  of  an  engraver  in  cutting  the  lines  of  his 
design.  Though  it  be  not  exactly  what  the  Author  would  have 
done,  had  he  himself  attempted  it,  the  Editor  ventures  to  believe 
that  full  justice  has  been  done  to  his  head  and  heart. 

Our  track  of  Mr.  Colton's  footsteps  in  the  Mediterranean, 
which  many  have  followed  with  pleasure  through  "  Ship  and 
Shore  "  and  "  Land  and  Lee,"  is  here  necessarily  ended.  With  the 
following  delicate  tribute  of  regard  to  one  whose  presence  in  the 
Constellation,  during  her  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  gave  an 
embellishment  seldom  known  to  life  in  a  frigate,  we  pass  to 
other  valuable  remains  never  before  published. 

There  was  ONE — who  often  accompanied  us  in  our 
diversions  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean — 
one  who  frequently  gave  to  such  occasions  an  interest 


100  A    TRIBUTE   TO   WORTH    AND    BEAUT\". 

beyond  the  objects  which  lured  our  steps — one  who 
would  light  up  the  most  common  themes  with  her 
sparkling  gems  of  thought,  or  supply  the  worn  topics 
with  others,  brilliant  and  fresh  from  recollection  and 
fancy — one  who  made  others  happy,  without  seeming 
to  be  conscious  that  she  was  the  source ;  and  who 
ever  delicately  evaded,  as  if  misplaced,  the  admira 
tion  her  youth,  genius,  and  beauty  awakened — who 
now,  alas  !  has  left  us  forever !  She  has  gone  from 
the  circle  of  our  friendship,  and  the  hearth  of  her 
fond  father,  to  return  no  more  !  Over  the  pleading 
youth  of  her  age,  and  the  retaining  force  of  our  affec 
tion,  death  has  sadly  triumphed  ! 

The  delicate  virtues  that  had  bloomed,  and  those 
that  were  timidly  expanding  to  the  light,  have  per 
ished  from  the  earth !  The  form  that  moved  so 
lightly;  the  eye  that  beamed  with  such  tenderness 
and  hope ;  the  lips  that  ever  breathed  the  accents  of 
gentleness  and  truth  ;  the  ear  on  which  music  never 
sacrificed  its  charm ;  the  rich  locks  that  rendered  the 
cheek  still  more  transparent  in  the  relief  of  their 
raven  darkness ;  and  the  face,  filled  with  the  expres 
sions  of  sweetness  and  beauty,  and  where  no  frown 
ever  cast  its  shadow — all  have  gone  down  into  the 
silent  recesses  of  the  grave ! 

The  ship  in  which  she  had  traversed  the  ocean — 
where  she  had  seen  the  wonders  of  God  displayed  in 
the  deep — had  returned  from  its  long  absence :  the 
green  hills  of  her  native  land  were  luvuking  the  hori 


EXPECTATION    AND    DISAPPOINTMENT.  lt>7 

zon  ;  another  day,  and  she  would  tread  that  beloved 
shore.  Many  were  gathered  there  to  whom  she  was 
tenderly  allied,  and  who  waited  to  embrace  her  with 
a  sister's  yearning  love  :  she  had  redeemed  the 
pledge  in  which  they  parted ;  and  often  beguiled 
their  lonely  hours  with  the  graphic  beauties  of  her 
pen  :  they  now  waited  to  enfold  her  in  their  arms, 
and  half  blamed  the  breeze  that  brought  the  ship  so 
slowly  to  her  anchor. 

They  were  the  first  on  board,  and  sought  first  the 
one  they  most  loved.  Alas  !  the  pale  form  was  there, 
but  the  spirit  that  gave  it  light  and  animation  had 
fled !  Still  the  tokens  of  its  peaceful  departure  lin 
gered  in  the  sweet  composure  of  her  face ;  the  calm 
brow  was  still  written  with  thought ;  the  cheek  softly 
tinged  with  the  dreams  of  her  rest.  They  had  come 
to  greet  her,  to  hear  her  speak,  and  welcome  her 
home ;  but  the  only  office  that  now  remained,  was  to 
consign  to  the  earth  this  beautiful  relic  :  with  break 
ing  hearts,  they  dressed  her  grave  on  the  banks  of 
that  stream  where  she  strayed  in  her  childhood,  and 
where  long  the  melancholy  wave  will  murmur  the 
music  of  her  name. 

What  avails  it  now  that  she  so  widely  surveyed 
the  scenes  which  lend  attraction  to  other  shores  ? 
that  she  wandered  among  the  hills  of  Greece,  and 
gazed  at  the  bright  isles  of  the  ^Egean  ? — that  she 
lifted  her  eye  to  the  solemn  dome  of  St.  Sophia,  and 
walked  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Coliseum  at 


168  THE   SECRET   OF   HER    PEACE. 


Rome? — that  she  saw  Venice  emerging  in  splendor 
from  the  wave,  and  Etna  still  sending  up  its  steep 
column  of  cloud  ? — that  she  glanced  through  the  gay 
saloons  of  Parisian  pride,  and  lingered  along  the 
banks  of  the  Kile  ? — that  she  surveyed  the  pyramids 
of  moldered  Egypt,  and  made  her  pilgrimage  to  the 
desolate  city  of  David  ? — that  she  stood  in  the  garden 
where  persecuted  LOVE  resigned  itself  to  the  bitter 
ness  of  its  cup — on  that  mount  where  the  Innocent 
suffered,  that  the  guilty  might  live — and  by  that 
tomb  which  once  sepulchred  the  hopes  of  the  world  ? 

Ah !  these  availed  her ;  for  these  mementoes  of  a 
dying  Saviour's  affection,  and  of  his  triumph  over 
death,  were  themes  upon  which  her  latest  and  fond 
est  thoughts  dwelt.  She  knew,  at  length,  that  her 
hour  had  come,  but  her  confidence  in  the  faithful 
ness  of  this  Redeemer  made  her  a  stranger  to  dis 
may ;  she  felt  that  she  was  passing  beyond  the  as 
siduities  of  mortal  friendship  and  affection,  but  she 
cast  herself  resignedly  upon  the  love  of  this  compas 
sionate  Jesus.  Her  last  faint  accents  whispered  of 
the  Cross,  and  of  that  land  where  tears  and  farewells 
are  unknown. 

Shall  we  see  one  dying  so  young,  and  with  so 
many  objects  to  attach  her  to  life,  and  not  be  re 
minded  of  the  hastening  hour  when  we  must  follow 
her?  SLall  the  admonition  that  tenderly  speaks 
from  her  grave  be  lightly  regarded  ?  Shall  the  se 
raphic  look  in  which  she  died  be  soon  forgotten  ? 


FAITH   TRIUMPHS    OVER   DEATH.  169 

Shall  the  religion,  displaying  the  signet  of  her  resig 
nation  and  triumphant  hopes,  continue  to  be  a  stran 
ger  to  these  hearts  ?  If  one  so  faultless  could  not 
die  without  the  light  of  a  Saviour's  love,  how  shall 
we,  in  our  sins  of  deeper  shade,  meet  the  King  of 
Terrors  ? 

Ah !  there  is  only  one  Being  that  can  sustain  in 
that  last  hour  of  need ;  only  one  that  can  furnish,  in 
this  extremity  of  nature,  a  refuge  for  the  soul.  This 
ONE  has  long  been  near  us,  waiting  to  be  gracious  ; 
he  has  tarried  without,  suing  for  admission  to  our 
confidence,  till  his  locks  are  wet  with  the  drops  of  the 
night.  Happy  he  who  admits  this  Saviour  to  his  in 
most  heart :  death  may  then  break  down  and  lay  in 
ruins  this  mortal  form ;  but  the  spirit  will  have  given 
it  "  the  wings  of  the  dove,  that  it  may  fly  away  and 
be  at  rest." 

8 


RODIEKER'S  YOUTH: 

A   POEM. 


AROUND  an  infant's  grave  fresh  flowers  are  springing, 
Which  scent  the  zephyrs  with  their  balmy  breath ; 

Above  that  grave  the  early  birds  are  singing, 
Blithely  as  they  who  little  know  of  death  : 

How  lightly  falls  on  flowers  and  waving  leaf, 

And  warbling  bird,  the  touch  of  human  grief! 


n. 

And  near  that  grave  a  little  child  is  seen, 
With  flowing  ringlets  and  a  glancing  eye, 

Darting  about  the  fragrant  shrubs  between, 
In  eager  haste  to  catch  the  butterfly : 

He  little  heeds  the  tender  flowrets  crushed, 

As  o'er  their  forms  his  flying  footstep  rushed. 


in. 

Rodieker's  mother  o'er  his  infant  mind 

The  tender  light  of  heavenly  truth  diffused  ; 

She  taught  him  where  his  withered  hopes  might  find 
A  higher  boon  than  fortune  had  refused ; 

A  fount  of  bliss  whose  gushing  wave  shall  roll 

In  limpid  freshness  o'er  thj  thirsting  soul. 


172 


IV. 

She  made  him  feel  he  lived  beneath  an  Eye 
Whose  sleepless  vigilance  extends  to  all — 

Beneath  a  Love  that  hears  the  raven's  cry, 
Beneath  a  care  that  marks  the  sparrow's  fall ; 

And  that  the  Smile  which  cheers  these  fragile  things, 

Around  his  steps  a  holier  radiance  flings. 


v. 

And  oft  at  eve  she  knelt  with  him  in  prayer : 

His  little  hands  were  clasped — his  eyes  to  heaven 

In  trusting  sweetness  lifted,  as  if  there 
Some  infant  error  sought  to  be  forgiven — 

Some  sorrow  soothed — some  disappointment  made 

A  blessing  to  the  hope  it  had  betrayed. 


VL 

How  sweet,  how  beautiful  that  kneeling  pair ! 

It  was  as  if  a  bright-eyed  cherub  knelt 
Beside  its  guardian-angel,  lighting  there, 

And  breathing  o'er  its  plumes  the  blisa  it  felt, 
And,  like  the  bird  that  soars  the  Alpine  height, 
Tempting  its  nursling  to  a  higher  flight. 


vn. 

And  yet,  all  mortal  rose  that  mother's  prayer : 
*'  Father,"  she  said,  "  oh  !  bless  my  darling  child 

Preserve  his  infant  steps  from  error's  snare, 
And  keep  his  tender  bosom  undefiled ; 

And  grant  to  him  that  gem  of  heavenly  light, 

Which  only  they  who  have  can  read  aright." 


KODIEKERS  YOUTH  —  A  POEM. 


And  then  she  laid  him  in  his  quiet  rest, 
But  often  to  his  couch  would  softly  creep, 

And  hang  above  his  lightly-heaving  breast  ; 
And  often  would  she  smile,  and  often  weep  : 

She  wept,  she  knew  not  why  ;  but  'twas  a  joy, 

E'en  through  her  tears  to  watch  her  sleeping  boy. 


IX. 

A  mother's  love  !  how  innocent  and  deep  ! 

E'er  gushing  up  from  its  exhaustless  source  : 
Alike  through  shade  and  sun  its  waters  leap, 

With  silent,  salient,  and  resistless  force  : 
So  pure,  a  seraph  might  within  its  wave 
Untouched  by  earth  its  glowing  pinions  lave. 

x. 

My  mother  !  sure  in  that  seraphic  sphere, 

Where  dwell  the  meek,  remembrance  thou'lt  retain, 

And  cherished  care  of  loved  and  lost  ones  here  ; 
For  oft,  when  night  asserts  her  silent  reign, 

Adown  the  depths  of  air  that  music  streams 

With  which  thou  lull'dst  to  rest  my  infant  dreams. 


XI. 

I  seem  to  lie  in  thy  dear  arms  as  then, 
And  look  up  to  thy  face  so  full  of  light ; 

Thy  soft  maternal  eyes  meet  mine  again, 
As  shaded  fountains  gush  upon  the  sight : 

Its  silken  lashes  seem  as  if  they  hid 

A  heaven  of  speechless  rapture  'neath  the  lid. 


174  RODIEKEK'S  YOUTH — A  POEM. 

XII. 

It  cannot  be,  my  mother,  thou  art  dead : — 
A  fond  illusion  proffers  this  relief: 

If  not  thy  breast  on  which  I  lay  my  head, 
It  is  thy  care  that  thus  consoles  my  grief : — 

Ah,  death  !  that  lifeless  form  may  rest  with  thee, 

My  mother's  love  shall  still  survive  with  me. 


xm. 

And  I  will  hive  it  deep  in  my  heart's  core, 

And  to  its  teachings  turn  with  that  sweet  awe, 

In  which  the  meek  enthusiast  kneels  before 
An  oracle  that  speaks  in  shape  of  law : 

Yet  breathes  its  mandate  in  so  soft  a  tone, 

The  listener  thinks  the  whisper  was  his  own. 


XIV. 

Rodieker's  gentle  mother  had  those  features 
Which  rather  win  than  waken  admiration ; 

She  might  have  furnished  young  poetic  preachers 
A  key  to  portraits  limned  in  Revelation 

So  indistinctly,  that  a  living  soul 

Seems  requisite  to  represent  the  whole. 


xv. 

But  she  was  one  who,  at  a  hasty  glance, 
Would  hardly  strike  as  beautiful,  and  yet 

Some  hidden  charm  of  form  or  countenance, 
Like  silver  planets  when  the  sun  has  set, 

Would  seem  to  cast  its  veil  of  shadows  by, 

And  timidly  advance  upon  the  eyo.  • 


175 


XVI. 

Her  very  presence  on  your  wonder  stole 
With  such  an  atmosphere  of  tender  light, 

It  seemed  as  some  aurora  of  the  pole 

Were  melting  down  the  silent  depths  of  night ; 

And  yet  you  felt  that  merely  light  and  air 

Could  never  form  a  thing  so  sweet  and  fair. 


XVII. 

Her  features  were  most  delicately  molded, 
And  so  transparent  seemed  her  dimpled  cheek, 

That  when  her  large  black  eye  its  rays  unfolded, 
Her  face  was  lighted  like  some  Alpine  peak, 

When  zephyrs  roll  the  circling  mists  away, 

And  on  its  summit  breaks  the  blush  of  day. 


XVIII. 

Her  step  was  airy,  yet  it  had  precision 

As  lifted  in  a  certain  place  to  light ; 
Her  form  just  filled  your  chastened  eye's  decision; 

Her  stature  rose  beyond  the  medium  height, 
And  yet  so  harmonized  in  every  part, 
It  seemed  quite  small  when  mirrored  on  the  heart ! 


XIX. 

Her  voice  was  soft  as  warble  of  a  bird, 
And  yet  it  had  sufficient  depth  of  tone — 

You  listened  to  its  flow  as  if  you  heard 

A  strain  of  music,  which  the  breeze  had  thrown 

Upon  your  ear  from  some  wild  woodland  lyre, 

Or  Seraph's  harp,  or  old  Cathedral  choir. 


176 


XX. 

She  broke  upon  you  softly  as  the  day, 
Or  Dian  from  her  circumambient  cloud ; 

The  triumph  which  her  beauty  bore  away 
Was  not  the  noisy  homage  of  the  crowd 

It  was  that  silent  worship  which  ascends 

As  o'er  its  shrine  a  trusting  spirit  bends. 


You  felt  that  such  a  one,  if  death  were  nigh, 

Could  cheer  and  soothe  you,  though  she  might  not  save ; 

You  thought  how  sweetly  on  your  closing  eye 
Would  fall  each  glance  her  tender  spirit  gave ; 

While  meekness  showed  where  guilt  might  be  forgiven, 

And  mercy  plumed  the  parting  soul  for  heaven. 


Rodieker's  father  was  a  shrewd  physician, 
With  less  of  science  than  of  tact  and  skill ; 

No  word  of  sternness  or  of  cold  derision 
E'er  mocked  the  most  imaginary  ill : 

He  deemed  such  patient  might  be  often  cured, 

By  listening  to  the  ills  which  he  endured. 

xxin. 
And  he  would  sit  from  hour  to  hour  and  list 

The  random  snatches  of  a  nervous  dream, 
Which  took  as  many  features  as  the  mist 

That  shapes  its  shadows  o'er  a  murmuring  stream 
And  still  he  listened  on,  as  if  he  caught 
Some  new  idea  in  each  vagrant  thought. 


177 


XXIV. 

But  when  disease  its  real  shape  betrayed, 
And  peril  on  his  panting  patient  pressed, 

Observant,  cool,  collected,  undismayed — 
Detecting  symptoms  doubtfully  expressed — 

He  traced  the  fearful  fever  to  its  source, 

With  skill  and  power  to  grapple  with  its  force. 


xxv. 

If  health  ensued,  he  never  spoke  of  skill ; 

If  death,  he  stood  resigned  and  calm  as  one 
In  silence  watching,  o'er  the  twilight  hill, 

The  circle  of  the  disappearing  sun : 
He  felt  that  orb  will  not  more  surely  break 
The  Orient  wave,  than  man  from  death  awake. 


XXVI. 

But  glance  we  now  at  young  Rodieker's  home — 
A  stern  old  mansion,  built  of  rough-hewn  stone, 

And  standing  'neath  the  deep  embowering  dome 
Of  antique  oaks  and  maples,  which  had  thrown 

Their  sturdy  limbs  and  leaves,  in  matted  woof, 

Above  its  heavy  walls  and  moss-grown  roof. 


XXVII. 

Behind  it  towered,  precipitously  steep, 

A  mountain-range  of  forest-feathered  rocks ; 

The  toppling  crags  frowned  o'er  a  torrent's  leap, 
Whose  rushing  footsteps  shook  the  granite  blocks, 

And  plunged  into  a  lake  below,  where  rose 

That  strangling  strife  which  mutual  hate  bestows, 

8* 


178 


xxvni. 

The  deep  lake  trembled  to  its  shaded  shore, 
And  rolled  its  crested  waves  against  the  foe ; 

But  each  advancing  billow  sunk  before 

Its  whelming  strength,  and  disappeared  below ; 

While  others  crowded  on  as  fierce  and  brave, 

To  shout  defiance  o'er  their  roaring  grave. 

XXIX. 

But  far  removed  from  this  tumultuous  scene, 
Where  circled  from  the  lake  a  quiet  bay, 

Protected  by  the  rocks  which  intervene, 

And  screened  by  chestnuts  from  the  summer's  ray, 

Was  seen  a  snow-white  swan,  pure  and  at  rest, 

Like  conscious  innocence  in  virtue's  breast. 


XXX. 

And  near  this  swan  a  little  bark  canoe 

Was  glancing  o'er  the  waters — light  the  oar 

Which  urged  its  course,  and  glad  the  wild  hallo 

That  hailed  the  swan,  which  seemed  to  shun  the  shore, 

But  ever  to  the  boat  turned  back  its  eye, 

Like  girl  to  lover  whom  she  feigns  to  fly. 

XXXI. 

And  young  Rodieker  balanced  well  his  boat, 

A  Huron  chief  could  not  have  trimmed  her  better ; 

Few,  save  a  politician,  thus  afloat, 

But  would  have  missed  their  balance  and  upset  her ; 

But  he  excels  all  others  as  a  trimmer, 

And,  if  capsized,  will  prove  a  dextrous  swimmer. 


-A    POEM. 


XXXII. 

Now  light  as  cork  he  floats  among  the  bubbles, 
And  keeps  the  current  whereso'er  it  tends : 

He  has  at  times,  'tis  true,  his  little  troubles, 

Such  as  the  trimmer  has  with  drowning  friends  ; 

But  off  he  darts,  as  quick  as  flying  trout, 

And  leaves  them  all  to  help  each  other  out. 


xxxm. 

Give  me  a  Locofoco  in  foul  weather  : 

When  drives  the  wrecking  gale  through  hail  and  fog, 
He  calmly  calls  his  haggard  crew  together, 

And  orders  each  a  double  glass  of  grog ; 
Then  jumps  into  the  boat,  when  they  are  drinking, 
And  in  an  hour  is  safe  while  they  are  sinking. 

XXXIV. 

Why  should  a  man  perplex  his  soul  for  others  1 

Or  like  the  Tribune  talk  of  obligations, 
As  if  mankind  were  all  a  band  of  brothers, 

And  nature's  God  had  sanctioned  these  relations  ? 
No,  better  be  as  cool  as  Peter  Schlemil, 
Reserved,  and  self-concentred  as  the  devil. 

XXXV, 

And  then  he'll  pass  you  for  a  gentleman, 

The  incarnation  of  the  beau-ideal — 
A  perfumed  martinet  in  fashion's  van, 

Though  almost  too  exquisite  to  be  real : 
But  still  a  mortal  whose  capacious  soul, 
In  dancing  Polka,  gains  its  utmost  goal. 


180       KODEEKER'S  YOUTH — A  POEM. 

XXXVI. 

The  Polka !  most  repulsive  rigadoon 
That  ever  revelled  in  the  satyr's  dance, 

When  romping  on  the  hills  beneath  the  moon — 
First  copied  by  some  harlequin  in  France ; 

But  now  the  pet  of  parlor,  hall,  and  stage, 

And  with  the  higher  circles  all  the  rage. 


XXXVII. 

When  first  beheld,  the  maid  and  matron  blushed, 
As  if  an  act  of  shame  had  found  the  light ; 

But  now  they  wonder  why  that  color  rushed 
To  modest  cheeks  at  such  a  harmless  sight : 

We  gaze  on  naked  statues  by  degrees, 

And  what  offended  first  now  seems  to  please. 

xxxvra. 

But  if  thou'lt  keep  thy  heart  and  soul  untainted, 
Set  chastest  sentinels  about  thine  eyes ; 

Through  them  it  is  the  shameful — chiselled,  painted — 
Its  silent,  secret  cankering  poison  flies ; 

Then  let  no  image  on  your  soul  be  thrown, 

Which  Virtue's  purest  thought  would  blush  to  own. 


Return  we  to  Rodieker's  childhood-home, 
O'er  which  the  maple  cast  its  grateful  shade ; 

While  near  a  rushing  torrent  rolled  its  foam 
In  ceaseless  thunder  down  the  steep  cascade, 

And  spread  into  a  lake  so  broad  and  bright, 

A  thousand  stars  slept  in  its  depths  at  nijrlit. 


181 


XL. 


The  grove  resounded  with  the  lays  of  birds, 
The  verdant  hills  were  garlanded  with  flocks ; 

The  meadows  sprinkled  o'er  with  lowing  herds, 
The  plough-fields  studded  with  the  reapers'  shocks ; 

While  floated  on  the  breeze  that  crisped  the  pool 

The  shout  of  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 


XLI. 

The  church,  from  out  a  granite  quarry  reared, 

No  chiselled  phantasies  of  art  betrayed : 
Compact  and  stern,  and,  save  the  cock  that  veered 

Above  a  swinging  mass  of  chestnut  shade — 
Withdrawn  from  sight,  like  some  strong  heart  in  prayer 
O'er  secret  sins  which  conscience  whispered  there. 


XLU. 

And  many  graves  within  the  church-yard  swelled, 
Where  youth  and  age,  and  infant  beauty  slept : 

How  oft  that  slowly  swinging  bell  had  knelled 
The  fate  of  one  by  all  beloved,  be  wept, 

While  each,  as  on  his  ear  the  death-dirge  stole, 

Felt  nearing  fast  himself  his  final  goal ! 


XLIII. 

I  wish  my  humble  obsequies  might  share 
The  artless  tears  our  village  maidens  shed, 

When  unavailing  proved  love's  fondest  care, 

And  sorrow  whispered  that  their  friend  was  dead 

Beside  his  flower-strewn  bier,  all  hand  in  hand, 

They  sang  his  passage  to  the  spirit-land. 


182 


XLIV. 

The  parson's  mansion  stood  not  far  remote, 

So  tranquil  in  the  aspect  that  it  wore, 
You  seemed  to  hear  his  evening  worship  float 

In  solemn  whispers  ere  you  reached  the  door : 
The  gayest  wight  no  look  of  lightness  cast, 
As  near  that  house  his  slackened  footstep  passed. 

XLV. 

He  was  a  man  of  calm,  yet  austere  mood, 
And  in  his  sternness  showed  his  pedigree ; 

For  he  was  born  of  Puritanic  blood  : 
To  no  one  did  he  ever  bend  the  knee, 

Except  to  God,  and  even  then  expressed 

Less  seeming  homage  than  his  heart  confessed. 

XLVI. 

His  brow  was  marble,  but  his  heart  was  mild ; 

The  fountain  gushed,  though  curbed  its  sparkling  rim  ; 
His  eyes,  as  he  chastised  a  froward  child, 

Were  oft  with  nature's  gentle  dews  made  dim ; 
He  struck  with  those  fond  feelings  he  betrayed, 
As  round  his  old  arm-chair  the  urchin  played. 

XL  VII. 

His  words  were  few,  select,  and  pertinent, 
Each  understood  and  well  performed  its  task  ; 

Before  their  force  frivolity  grew  silent, 
And  guilt  in  sudden  fear  let  fall  its  mask: 

And  yet,  though  strong  his  bow  and  sharp  his  steel, 

He  only  wounded  men  that  he  might  heal. 


183 


XL  VIII. 

From  off  the  pulpit's  consecrated  seat 

He  rose  as  one  there  called  by  God's  behest ; 

His  locks  fell  on  his  shoulders  like  a  sheet 
Of  snow  upon  a  bending  maple's  crest ; 

His  brow,  above  his  eyes  in  sternness  piled, 

Repressed  the  lightness  of  the  gazing  child. 

XLIX. 

His  prophet-eye  looked  out  as  if  its  ray 

Could  travel  through  the  grave's  eclipsing  night, 

To  some  far-distant  clime  of  cloudless  day, 
Some  spirit-land  that  rose  upon  his  sight, 

As  Judah's  vine-clad  hills  in  glory  sweep 

On  his  who  gazed  from  Horeb's  towering  steep. 


L. 

He  was  a  breathing,  bold  impersonation 
Of  moral  outlines,  which  he  often  drew, 

Impressing  portraits,  sketched  in  Revelation, 
By  corresponding  features  full  in  view : 

A  living  picture  strikes,  when  one  that's  sainted 

Will  sometimes  fail,  however  strongly  painted. 


LI. 

But  if  you  take  the  living,  let  it  be 

Some  one  whose  points  of  character  are  strong: 
'Tis  not  enough  that  he  is  merely  free 

From  striking  faults  and  overt  acts  of  wrong ; 
His  virtues  must  be  positive — a  thing 
Whose  echoes  ever  on  life's  anvil  ring, 


184:  KODIEKER'S  YOUTH  —  A  POEM. 

LIL 

This  world  is  full  of  action:  he  must  ride 

The  foremost  wave  who  would  direct  its  motion; 

The  timid  seaman  on  the  inland  tide 

Can  never  feel  the  mighty  heaves  of  ocean  : 

Then  lift  your  anchors,  spread  your  strongest  sail, 

And  speed  with  steady  helm  before  the  gale. 


Around  Rodieker's  home  a  colonnade 
Of  native  beech  its  glancing  shadows  flung  ; 

Its  shafts  and  branching  architrave  displayed 
The  climbing  evergreen,  whose  tendrils  hung 

In  fragrant  festoons  round  the  blushing  grape, 

That  sought  its  love  in  this  fantastic  shape. 

LIV. 

Beneath  its  eaves  the  blue-bird  built  its  nest  : 
That  bird  had  watched  Rodieker's  infant  play, 

Nor  feared  the  child  would  e'er  its  young  molest, 
For  oft  he  listened  to  her  matin  lay  ; 

And  when  it  ceased,  he  looked  and  listened  on, 

As  if  with  that  some  secret  joy  had  gone. 

LV. 

The  floors  and  ceilings  were  of  solid  oak  ; 

No  Wilton  carpet  sunk  beneath  the  tread, 
No  gilded  mirrors  on  your  wonder  broke, 

No  chandeliers  their  flashing  radiance  spread  ; 
No  glowing  landscape  lit  the  sombre  wall, 
No  sculptured  fawn  or  fay  danced  in  the  hall. 


185 


LVI. 

And  yet  the  good  old  mansion  had  an  air 
Of  cheerfulness  which  reached  your  very  heart : 

A  warmth  and  soul  which  oft  enticed  you  there, 
And  made  you  linger  when  you  should  depart ; 

But  none,  of  all  who  came  and  went  away, 

Could  tell  wherein  the  fascination  lay. 

LVII. 

It  was  the  heaven-born  hope  which  therein  dwelt, 
The  light  of  love  which  filled  each  quiet  room ; 

A  mental  halo  which  each  bosom  felt, 
Like  gush  of  sunlight  in  a  forest's  gloom, 

Or  blossoming  of  stars  when  dying  day 

In  evening's  sable  shadows  melts  away. 


LVIII. 

He  was  the  youngest  child  of  two ;  for  only 

These  two  had  crowned,  it  seems,  a  parent's  bliss ; 

No  daughter  made  its  mother's  hours  less  lonely, 
Or  ran  with  him  to  share  the  envied  kiss : 

We  half  forget  lost  Eden  when  we  see 

A  sweet  child  climbing  up  its  father's  knee. 


LIX. 

His  brother  died  in  infancy :  the  grief 

Which  shook  its  mother's  bosom  may  be  guessed 
From  strains  wherein  her  spirit  sought  relief: 

Her  pregnant  sorrows  breathed  themselves  to  rest, 
Like  harp-strings  which  the  winds  have  rudely  rent, 
In  this  bewailing,  yet  resigned  lament. 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

MY  child !  my  sweet  one !  speak  to  me ; 

It  is  thy  mother  calls  to  thee ; 
She  who  felt  too  deeply  blessed, 
When  thy  lips  to  hers  were  pressed, 

When  thy  little  arms  were  flung 

Round  this  neck,  where  thou  hast  clung, 
Caressing  and  caressed. 

Thy  infant  step  was  light  as  air, 

As  'mid  the  garden  flowers 
I  watched  thee,  glancing  here  and  there, 

Between  the  April  showers  ; 
Thy  cherub  cheek  was  sweetly  flushed, 

Thy  locks  the  free  breeze  stirred, 
As  through  the  vines  thy  light  form  rushed 

To  reach  the  new-fledged  bird. 

I  saw  thee  in  my  raptured  dreams, 

Clad  in  the  hues  of  youth ; 
Thy  path  resplendent  with  the  beams 

Of  honor,  love,  and  truth. 
I  thought  should  he,  whose  noble  worth 

Thy  brow  the  promise  bears, 
Be  summoned  from  our  humble  hearth, 

How  soft  would  flow  thy  cares ! 
How  soft  to  her,  whose  lonely  breast 

Would  then  such  solace  need! 
How  sweet  'twould  be,  I  thought,  to  rest 

On  such  a  gentle  reed ! 


1ST 


Ah,  little  thought  I  then,  my  child ! 

That  thy  quick,  balmy  breath, 
And  pulses,  running  warm  and  wild, 

Would  now  be  chilled  in  death ! 
In  death  1    Oh,  no  !  that  sable  seal 

Disease  can  never  set, 
Where  lip  and  brow  so  much  reveal 

Of  life,  that  lingers  yet. 

I  still  shall  feel  that  gushing  joy 

Which  thrills  a  mother's  breast, 
Whene'er  she  clasps  her  bright-eyed  boy 

From  out  his  cradled  rest. 
Come,  meet  thy  mother's  warm  embrace, 

Return  her  fervid  kiss, 
And  press  thy  sweet  cheek  to  her  face, 

«  My  first-born  bud  of  bliss  !" 

Alas,  my  child !  thy  cheek  is  cold, 

And  yet  thy  forehead  gleams  as  fair 
As  when  those  flaxen  ringlets  rolled 

In  life  and  gladness  there. 
But  then  thy  lips  are  deadly  pale — 

That  were  of  rose-red  hue ; 
And  thy  long  lashes,  like  a  vail, 

Fall  o'er  those  eyes  of  blue ! 

Still  round  thy  lip,  where  mine  delays, 
A  smile  in  tender  sweetness  stays, 
The  imaged  transport  of  the  soul, 
Escaping  from  its  brief  control, 
Yet  leaving,  as  it  passed  away, 
This  smile  of  rapture  on  the  clay, 
To  tell  us,  in  this  trace  of  bliss, 
There  breathes  a  brighter  world  than  this. 


188 


I  feel  reproved  that  thus  I  strove — 
The  errings  of  a  mother's  love — 

To  keep  thee  here,  when  only  given 
To  glance  a  gladness  'round  our  hearth, 
And,  all  untouched  by  stain  of  earth, 

Fly  back  again  to  heaven ! 

'Twcre  wrong  in  me,  had  I  the  power, 
To  win  thee  back  the  briefest  hour ; 
For  guilt  and  grief  are  all  unknown 
Where  thy  seraphic  soul  hath  flown : 
Be  mine  the  task,  through  faith  and  prayer, 
And  Christ's  dear  love,  to  meet  thee  there. 


LX. 

Twelve  vernal  suns  had  called  the  wild-birds  back, 
Since  first  Rodieker  heard  their  joyous  trills ; 

This  infant  stage  on  life's  ascending  track 
Had  little  felt  the  weight  of  human  ills : 

If  'mid  its  light  a  trace  of  sadness  lay, 

It  seemed  some  shadow  that  had  lost  its  way. 


LXL 

But  there  was  one  from  whose  large  lustrous  eyes 
Each  scene  a  brighter  ray  of  gladness  caught ; 

Her  hand  in  his  to  each  light  thrill  replies, 

Her  eye  returns  the  glance  his  own  had  sought  :- 

A  timid  glance — but  all  his  heart  can  claim — 

Since  hers  the  source  from  which  the  token  came. 


189 


LXII. 

"  Bright  sainted  one  !  the  bloom  of  youth  was  on  thee 

When  thou  didst  smile  and  die — when  I  beside 
Thy  couch,  with  doubting  tears,  still  gazed  upon  thee, 

And  idly  thought  thou  yet  wouldst  be  my  bride : 
So  like  to  life  the  slumber  death  had  cast 
On  thy  sweet  face,  my  first  love  and  my  last. 

LXIII. 

"  I  watched  to  see  those  lids  their  light  unfold, 
For  still  thy  forehead  rose  serene  and  fair 
As  when  those  raven  ringlets  richly  rolled 

O'er  life,  which  dwelt  in  thought  and  beauty  there : 
Thy  cheek  the  while  was  rosy  with  the  theme 
That  flushed  along  the  spirit's  mystic  dream. 

Lxrv. 

"  Thy  lips  were  circled  with  that  silent  smile 

Which  oft  around  their  dewy  freshness  woke, 
When  some  more  happy  thought  or  harmless  wile 

Upon  thy  warm  and  wandering  fancy  broke  : 
For  thou  wert  Nature's  child,  and  took  the  tone 
Of  every  pulse,  as  if  it  were  thine  own. 


LXV. 

"  I  watched,  and  still  believed  that  thou  wouldst  wake, 

When  others  came  to  wrap  thee  in  the  shroud ; 
I  thought  to  see  this  seeming  slumber  break, 

As  I  have  seen  a  light,  transparent  cloud 
Disperse,  which  o'er  a  star's  bright  face  had  thrown 
A  shadow  like  to  that  which  veiled  thine  own. 


190 


LXVI. 

"  But  no ;  there  was  no  token,  look,  or  breath : 
The  tears  of  those  around,  the  tolling  bell 
And  hearse,  told  me,  at  last,  that  this  was  death ! 

I  know  not  if  I  breathed  a  last  farewell ! 
But  since  that  day,  ray  sweetest  hours  have  passed 
In  thought  of  thee,  my  first  Love  and  my  last !" 

LXVII. 

Thus  mourned  Rodieker,  as  he  left  the  spot 

Where,  'neath  the  flowers,  his  lost  Cathara  sleeps — 

A  being  by  the  world  too  soon  forgot ; 
But  one  lone  heart  its  faithful  vigil  keeps, 

And  pours,  unseen,  a  soft,  undying  flame 

O'er  that  loved  face  and  fondly  cherished  name. 


APHORISMS,  MAXIMS,  AND  LACONICS. 


AMONG  the  papers  of  Mr.  Colton,  the  Editor  found  a  few  leaves 
of  original  aphorisms,  and  valuable  sententious  sayings,  to  -which  he 
has  added  more  from  other  published  and  unpublished  fragments. 
They  are  here  revised,  and  presented  with  suitable  captions,  or  titles ; 
and  they  are  embodied  in  these  Remains  as  giving  a  fair  exhibition 
of  the  sentiments,  the  principles,  and  the  style  of  their  Author. 


APHORISMS,  MAXIMS,  AND  LACONICS, 


THREE    LEVELLERS. 

THE  vanity  of  those  distinctions  on  which  mankind 
pride  themselves  will  be  sufficiently  apparent,  if  we 
consider  the  three  places  in  which  all  men  must  meet 
on  the  same  level — at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  in  the 
grave,  and  at  the  judgment-bar. 

SHIFTS    OF    POLITICIANS. 

A  POLITICIAN,  who  has  no  resources  of  his  own,  al 
ways  connects  himself  with  some  great  temporary 
excitement ;  just  as  a  hungry  shark  rushes  along  in 
the  wake  of  a  ship,  to  pick  up  the  damaged  provi 
sions,  amputated  limbs,  and  even  old  shoes,  that  may 
be  thrown  overboard. 

COWPER   AND   TOUNO    COMPARED. 

THE  gloom  of  Cowper  flowed  from  the  maladies  of 
his  nature — that  of  Young  from  the  maladies  of  his 
ambition.  The  former  was  a  victim  against  his  will, 
and  sought  to  veil  his  sorrows  even  from  the  few ; 
the  latter  threw  himself  on  the  rack,  and  called  on 
the  world  to  witness  his  agony. 

9 


THE    lAWm   JLS1>   HIS   RX& 

L&WTSBS  find  their  tees  in  the  finite  of  our 
just  as  woodpeckers  get  their  worms  oak  of  tbe 
of  then 


THE  pulpit  has  its  amateurs*  and  the  fiddle 
id  tber  both  perform  occasionally  &r  the  ai 
of  mankind. 


WITSOCT    StSCSBJTT. 


THEKE  is  no  dissini  ulation  so  impeaebrabfe 
which  appAientiT  tews  nothing  to 

and  firam  knesss  without  sincerity.  He  who  can  suc- 
cessfulbr  practise  these  mar  escape  exposure  here, 
bat  mast  ineTitaMy  be  detected  in  Haft  <&r  when  tfoe 
heart  will  be  required  to  gire  up  its  secret^  and  die 
grave  surrender  its  dead. 


Tmec  habtts  which  d%nirVT  or 

^beir  shape  and  complexion  during  oar  earlier 
Ike  fruits  of  summer  and  autumn  ityjUte  m 
and  the  karrest  of  okl  age  germinates  ift 


.-.  .-    r 


APHORISMS,   MAXIMS,    AND  LACONICS.  195 

LITTLE    MEN    AND    LAROE    MEASURES. 

THE  patronizing  air  with  which  some  men  pipe  to 
every  great  movement  in  the  community,  is  often 
extremely  ludicrous.  The  vast  objects  on  which  they 
bestow  their  gratuitous  favors,  so  far  from  lifting 
them  into  their  own  element,  and  making  them  par 
takers  of  their  sublimity  and  grandeur,  only  have  the 
effect  to  dwarf  them  the  more,  to  render  their  in 
significance  still  more  palpable,  and  expose  their 
vanity  to  the  mirth  of  mankind.  They  resemble 
one  who  should  fiddle,  on  the  desert  of  Sahara,  to  the 
towering  columns  of  sand,  whirling  in  their  sirocco 
waltz. 

PIETY   IN    THE    LOFTY    AND    THE    LOW. 

THE  piety  of  the  humble  and  obscure  is  less  im 
posing,  but  it  is  more  vital,  as  it  is  more  simple,  than 
that  which  emanates  from  unapproachable  superi 
ority.  The  mountain  torrent  may  dash  downward 
magnificently  to  the  plain,  and  roll  on  in  splendor  to 
the  ocean  ;  but  it  is  the  little  streamlet,  winding 
around  in  the  valley,  and  revealing  here  and  there 
the  traces  of  its  brightness  and  purity,  that  fertilizes 
and  refreshens  the  earth. 

ACTIONS    SURVIVE    THEIR    ACTORS. 

DEATH  may  remove  from  us  the  great  and  good, 
but  the  force  of  their  actions  still  remains.  The  bow 
is  broken,  b'ut  the  arrow  is  sped,  and  will  do  its  office. 


196  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND    LACONICS. 

INTREPIDITY    GROWING    OUT   OF    IGNORANCE. 

IGNORANCE  is  often  the  source  of  the  most  intrepid 
action,  and  the  most  implicit  faith ;  since  there  are 
none  so  fearless  as  those  who  have  not  light  enough 
to  see  their  danger ;  and  none  so  confident  as  they 
who  have  not  sufficient  knowledge  to  discover  their 
own  errors. 

HAPPINESS    NOT    IN    CIRCUMSTANCES. 

SOME  men  ascribe  all  their  unhappiness  to  the  nar 
rowness  of  their  means ;  but  place  them  in  the  im 
mediate  enjoyment  of  all  that  enters  within  the  circle 
of  their  present  hopes  and  desires,  and  they  will  no 
sooner  have  entered  on  the  enrapturing  possession, 
than  new  hopes  and  desires  will  begin  to  manifest 
themselves.  You  cannot  place  a  man  in  such  a  situ 
ation  that  he  will  not  look  above  it  and  beyond  it ; 
give  him  the  whole  of  this  world,  and,  like  the  hero 
of  Macedon,  he  will  inquire  for  another. 

TYRANNY    OF    EVIL    HABITS. 

HE  who  has  struck  his  colors  to  the  power  of  an 
evil  habit,  has  surrendered  himself  to  an  enemy 
bound  by  no  articles  of  faith,  and  from  whom  he  can 
expect  only  the  vilest  treatment. 

VANITY    OF    LOVERS. 

SENTIMENTS  of  friendship  merely,  are  ever  con 
strued  by  a  vain  lover  into  the  diffident  expressions 
of  deep  affection. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  197 

DEPENDENCE    OF    LOVE    ON    IMAGINATION. 

DIVEST  the  objects  of  our  affections  of  every  thing 
but  reality,  and  love  would  become  friendship,  and 
poetry  prose. 

INDECISION   A    PROOF    OF    WEAKNESS. 

INDECISION  is  an  evidence  of  weakness,  because  it 
evinces  a  want  of  capacity  to  apprehend  what  is  best, 
or  a  want  of  energy  to  pursue  it. 

FRIVOLITY    OF    EARTHLY    DISTINCTIONS    TO    HIGHER    INTELLI 
GENCES. 

THE  greatest  earthly  distinctions,  in  the  estimation 
of  angels,  are,  probably,  as  frivolous  as  the  little  fa- 
voritisms  of  infancy,  in  the  estimation  of  men. 

SCANDALS  COME  BACK  ON  THE  AUTHOR. 

PEESONALITIES  are  like  woodpeckers,  which  always 
hunt  for  the  defective  parts  of  trees ;  and  scandals 
are  like  chickens  which  always  come  home  to  roost. 

THE    LADIES    IN    THEOLOGY. 

LADIES  are  always  interesting  to  us  on  profound 
theological  questions  ;  they  never  take  us  down  into 
the  dark  and  troubled  depths  of  the  stream;  they 
skim  its  bright  surface,  resembling  a  duck  which 
flies  and  dips  at  the  same  time.  The  motion  of  the 
dolphin  is  much  more  amusing  than  that  of  the 
whale,  though  the  latter  makes  the  deeper  plunge, 
and  stirs  the  waters  more  lustily  in  his  path. 


198  APHORISMS,    MA-TIMS^    AND   LACONICS. 


TALK    NOT    OF    SELF. 


SAT  nothing  respecting  yourself,  either  good,  bad, 
or  indifferent :  nothing  good,  for  that  is  vanity ;  no 
thing  bad,  for  that  is  affectation  ;  nothing  indifferent, 
for  that  is  silly. 

FOLLY    OF    HUNTING    A    LIE. 

NEVER  chase  a  lie;  for  if  you  keep  quiet,  truth  will 
eventually  overtake  it  and  destroy  it. 

CONFIDENCE    SOLICITED    GENERALLY    BETRAYS. 

NEVER  trust  a  person  who  solicits  your  confidence, 
for  in  nine  instances  ont  of  ten,  you  will  be  be 
trayed. 

OPENNESS  TO  FLATTERY  A  PROOF  THAT  ONE  CAN  EASILY  BE 
MADE  A  FOOL. 

IF  you  wish  to  make  a  fool  of  a  man,  first  see 
whether  you  can  flatter  him ;  and  if  you  succeed, 
your  purpose  is  half  gained. 

THE    WISDOM    OF    HUMAN    CONDUCT    JUDGED    BY    ITS    RESULTS. 

BE  careful  how  you  charge  another  with  weakness 
or  inconsistency;  he  may  be  governed  by  motives 
beyond  your  apprehension  :  it  is  the  final  result  that 
stamps  our  conduct  with  wisdom  or  folly. 

A    GOOD    RULE    OF    CONDUCT. 

SECURE  the  approbation  of  the  aged,  and  you  will 
enjoy  the  confidence  of  the  young. 


APHORISMS,   MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  199 


BOAST    NOT    OF    YOUR    PARENTAGE. 

talk  of  your  parentage ;  for,  if  it  is  honor 
able,  you  virtually  acknowledge  your  claims  to  rest 
on  the  merits  of  others  ;  or,  if  it  is  mean,  you  wish 
to  show  that  something  good  has  at  length  come  out 
of  Nazareth ;  or,  if  it  is  neither,  your  conversation 
can  be  interesting  only  to  yourself. 

CENSORIOUSNESS    OFTEN    A    PROOF    OF    ROTTENNESS. 

WHILE  you  say  that  the  religion  of  your  neighbor 
is  like  a  garment  that  sets  loosely  upon  him,  be  care 
ful  that  yours  is  not  like  a  glove,  that  fits  either 
hand.  Those  who  have  the  least  piety  are  ordinarily 
the  most  censorious  :  a  dishonest  man  is  the  first  to 
detect  a  fraudulent  neighbor.  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief. 

THE  voice  of  envy's  ever  prone 
To  slander  merit  not  its  own — 
Reduce  the  good  to  its  own  level, 
And  paint  an  angel  like  a  devil. 
Thus  liars  think  all  men  are  false ; 
Knaves,  all  dishonest,  rich,  or  worse ; 
Thus  sots  no  temperate  man  can  find, 
And  rakes,  none  chaste  of  woman  kind. 

AMBITION    A    FOE    TO    FRIENDSHIP. 

AN  ambitious  man  is  himself  the  most  sensible  of 
his  folly ;  and  his  ambition  travels  on  a  road  too  nar 
row  for  friendship — too  steep  for  safety. 


200  APHORISMS,   MAXIMS,   AND  LACONICS. 

A  MAN'S  TALK  HIS  MIND'S  LOOKING-GLASS. 

COMMON  conversation  is  the  best  mirror  to  a 
man's  heart  and  head  ;  and  he  that  can  be  deceived 
by  a  person  with  whom  he  has  been  intimate,  discov 
ers  a  want  of  discernment  that,  were  it  possible, 
would  excuse  the  imposition. 

ATTENTION    CHANGED    TO    INDIFFERENCE. 

A  PERSON  who  has  treated  you  with  attention,  but 
now  with  indifference,  labors  under  a  conviction  of 
having  previously  mistaken  your  character,  or  is  now 
chargeable  with  misconstruing  your  conduct :  the 
first  shows  a  mortifying  want  of  discernment ;  the 
last  a  pitiable  want  of  generosity. 

THE    HEART    MORE    POTENTIAL    THAN    THE    HEAD. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  deference  man  pays  his  in 
tellect,  he  is  governed  more  by  his  heart  than  his 
head.  His  reason  may  pronounce  with  a  certainty 
that  seems  to  imply  an  impossibility  of  mistake ;  but, 
after  all,  his  heart  will  run  away  with  the  action. 

IGNORANCE    THE    PARENT    OF    PRESUMPTION. 

THERE  is  the  most  assurance  usually  where  there 
is  the  most  ignorance  :  we  feel  certain  of  safety,  be 
cause  we  have  not  light  enough  to  discover  our  danger. 

THS    CONFLICT    BETWEEN    PRIDE    AND    POVERTY. 

THE  hardest  grapple  upon  earth,  is  that  which 
obtains  between  pride  and  poverty:  and  the  man 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND    LACONICS.  201 

who  has  become  the  disputed  province  of  these  two 
belligerents,  is  a  stranger  to  repose  and  happiness. 

SOCIETY    WHEN    PROFITABLE    AND    WHEN    UNPROFITABLE. 

SOCIAL  intercourse  is  of  great  value  as  a  means  of 
improvement,  when  it  has  that  object  in  view,  and  is 
guided  by  a  sincere  regard  for  those  with  whom  we 
associate,  and  a  real  interest  in  their  society.  But 
when  such  intercourse  becomes  a  mere  compliance 
with  artificial  rules  of  fashion,  and  we  are  driven  to 
it  by  the  authority  of  public  opinion,  and  maintain  it 
mechanically,  it  occasions  waste  of  time,  and  renders 
the  social  circle  a  place  unworthy  of  a  cultivated 
mind  and  an  independent  spirit. 

PRINCIPLES    HAVE    THEIR    TIMES    AND    THEIR    SOILS. 

IT  is  not  often  that  the  politician  who  makes  the 
most  noise,  effects  the  greatest  amount  of  good  for 
his  party.  Principles  are  seldom  planted  deep  and 
strong  in  tumult  and  excitement :  they  may  be  de 
veloped  and  enforced  on  such  occasions,  but  not  per 
manently  established.  The  foundations  of  a  city  are 
never  laid  while  the  ground  is  rocking  with  the  earth 
quake. 

THE  OLD  FOR  COUNSEL THE  YOUNG  FOR  ACTION. 

THERE  is  an  adage  that  says,  old  men  for  counsel 
and  young  men  for  action :  there  ought  to  be  one 
which  should  say,  old  divines  for  comments  on  the 
Prayer-book,  and  young  divines  to  enforce  them. 


202  APHORISMS,   MAXIMS,   AND   LAC' >M<     - 

RESULTS    OF    BLUNDERS. 

THE  upsetting  of  a  gig  was  the  occasion  of  Wash 
ington's  being  born  in  the  United  States,  and  the 
subsequent  establishment  of  our  national  indepen 
dence  ;  an  error  of  the  miner  in  sinking  a  well  led  to 
the  discovery  of  Herculaneum,  with  all  its  magnifi 
cent  treasures  of  ancient  art ;  and  a  blunder  in  nau 
tical  adventures,  resulted  in  the  discovery  of  the 
island  of  Madeira,  with  all  those  delicious  wines 
which  have  ever  since 

Filled  banquet-halls  with  song,  and  wit,  and  laughter ; 
But  salts  and  soda-water  the  day  after  I 

CHARACTER   DISCOVERED    BY   TRIFLES. 

MANY  are  philosophers  in  great  misfortunes,  who 
lose  their  equanimity  in  trifles.  Their  troubles  re 
semble  streams  which  ripple  most  where  the  water 
is  the  shallowest.  The  current  of  our  life  is  ruffled 
most  at  its  surface  ;  its  depths  are  seldom  disturbed. 

POLITICAL    AMBITION    AND    TIMIDITY. 

A  MAN  ambitious  of  playing  a  prominent  part  at  a 
public  meeting,  should  have  courage  enough  to  put 
his  name  to  its  proceedings  without  an  apologetic  ex 
planation.  It  is  not  for  him 

To  do,  then  half  undo  what  one  has  done  ; 
To  speak,  then  half  recall  the  spoken  word ; 
To  cast  a  stone  in  this  scale,  then  in  that, 
Till  Justice  f-.\.\\<  asleep  upon  the  beam. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  203 


RELIGION    AT    THE    BALLOT-BOX. 

THERE  is  a  morbid  apprehension  abroad  that  the 
names  of  licentious  and  unprincipled  men  will  ere 
long  cease  to  disgrace  the  ballot-box ; — that  gam 
blers,  and  duellists,  and  drunkards,  and  all  that 
genus,  will  be  deemed  at  least  as  unfit  for  civil  offices 
as  clergymen.  The  rabid  are  known  by  their  fear  of 
water.  It  is  not  without  reason,  however,  that  they 
represent  the  exercise  of  common  rights  by  religious 
men,  and  by  those  who  desire  upright  and  virtuous 
rulers,  as  the  entering  wedge  of  something  greater ; 
for  it  is  already  inscribed  on  the  chief  record  of  the 
Church,  "  The  kingdom  and  dominion,  and  the  great 
ness  of  the  kingdom  under  the  whole  heaven,  shall 
be  given  to  the  people  of  the  saints  of  the  Most 
High."  Therefore,  if  they  are  emulous  of  office,  it 
will  be  their  safest  way  to  alter  their  character. 


SANCTITY    OF    MOTIVE    AN    EXEMPTION    FROM    INJURY. 

VIRTUE  and  goodness  can  never  be  overthrown 
by  attempts  at  ridicule  and  profane  wit.  They  have 
been  assailed  by  such  weapons  before,  but  have 
always  come  off  unharmed.  The  shafts  fail  of  reach 
ing  their  objects,  and  frequently  fall  on  those  who 
fling  them.  There  is  a  sanctity  in  good  motives 
which  exempts  their  possessor  from  injury.  There  is 
a  conscious  rectitude  of  purpose  which  has  sustained 
itself  amid  sneers,  frowns,  and  flames  of  the  stake. 


204  APHORISMS,   MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS. 

The  last  surrender  which  an  upright  man  will  make, 
is  the  comforts  and  hopes  of  his  religion,  and  this 
surrender  he  will  make  only  with  his  life,  when  he 
commits  them  with  his  deathless  soul  to  the  hand  of 
his  God. 


FORCE    OF    EARLY    EDUCATION. 

IN  very  early  life  our  conduct  flows  from  the  prin 
ciples  of  our  animal  constitution ;  but  in  age  it  is,  in 
a  great  measure,  the  result  of  habit.  The  infant  that 
expresses  itself  only  in  its  smiles  and  tears  is,  indeed, 
the  child  of  nature ;  but  the  man  whose  eyes  are  sel 
dom,  if  ever,  wet  with  these  soft  dews  of  the  heart, 
has  gradually  yielded  himself  to  a  passionless  habit, 
and  is  fixed  beyond  the  influence  of  his  softening 
propensities.  The  opening  of  our  being,  like  that  of 
the  flower,  shows  the  simple  original  properties  ;  but 
as  the  color  of  the  rose  is  affected  by  the  state  of  the 
atmosphere  in  which  it  is  placed,  so  the  complexion 
of  our  character  is  derived  from  the  circumstances  of 
education. 


SELF-IGNORANCE    THE    SOURCE    OF    SELF-CONFIDENCE. 

MEN  who  think  they  can  dupe  others,  are  the  most 
easily  duped  themselves.  They  are  reached  them 
selves  through  that  very  vanity  which  led  them  to 
think  they  could  overreach  others. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  205 

THE    THREE    FOES    OF    LIBERTY. 

IGNORANCE,  and  Yice,  and  Luxury,  are  the  gor- 
gons  that  will  devour  the  liberties  of  this  country. 
Csesars  and  Catilines  are  always  abundant ;  and 
when  this  dreadful  trio,  sent  up  from  darkness,  have 
accomplished  their  work,  the  fabric  of  freedom  tum 
bles  of  itself,  and  party  spirit  or  foreign  power  sets 
up  his  tyrant-vulture  to  brood  upon  its  ruins.  Ghosts 
of  departed  republics,  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and 
names  less  illustrious,  bear  testimony,  all  of  you,  that 
this,  and  this  only,  was  the  process  of  your  destruc 
tion  !  Brutus,  Cato,  and  Demosthenes,  are  then  only 
reeds  in  a  torrent,  or  feathers  in  a  whirlwind.  The 
blood  of  a  despot  may  produce  a  civil  war,  but,  at 
the  same  time,  it  seals  the  charter  of  a  tyrannical 
lineage. 

THE    FALSE    WISDOM    OF    TACITURNITY. 

NOTHING  is  more  ridiculous  than  the  wordless 
taciturnity  of  some  men.  They  wish  to  pass  for  pro 
found  thinkers.  They  know  that  a  shallow  stream 
usually  makes  the  most  noise — that  a  deep  current  is 
scarcely  heard ;  therefore,  they  resort  to  silence. 
Mark  them  :  how  fixed  and  tranquil  is  each  feature 
— how  steadfast  the  insufferable  scrutiny  of  the  eye — 
what  an  air  of  the  contemplative  clothes  the  change 
less  brow — what  an  expression  of  deep  and  solemn 
thought  pervades  the  whole  man  !  They  move 
among  us  like  a  superior  order  of  beings,  who  would 


200  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND    L.Vo.XK'S. 

have  no  communion  with  oiir  dusty  thoughts — no 
sympathy  with  our  grovelling  affections.  They  would 
fain  to  live  apart,  in  the  retirement  of  their  own 
minds,  and  to  be  familiar  only  with  those  thoughts 
which  are  either  too  deep  or  too  high  for  the  intel 
lectual  ken  of  those  around  them. 

]N"ow,  we  hesitate  not  to  say  that,  amidst  all  this 
apparent  thoughtfulness,  there  is  a  total  absence  of 
thought — that,  amidst  all  this  seeming  profundity, 
there  is  nothing  but  surface — and  that  this  atmos 
phere  of  golden  light  is  a  land  of  darkness  as  dark 
ness  itself,  and  where  the  light  is  as  clarkm-— . 
Doubtless  there  are  men  of  few  words  and  profound 
thoughts,  but  there  are  also  men  of  few  words  and 
still  fewer  thoughts.  Taciturnity  is  as  far  from  being 
an  evidence  of  uncommon  profoundness,  as  the 
tranquil  face  of  a  lake  is  of  unfathomable  depths 
beneath. 

OPPOSITION    OWING    TO   STRENGTH   AND    FIRMNESS. 

A  MAN  of  a  weak,  complying  disposition,  whom  no 
one  fears,  no  one  will  be  at  the  trouble  to  oppose ; 
while  a  man  of  a  strong  and  fixed  character  will  be 
liable  to  opposition,  at  least  from  those  who  expect 
to  derive  a  certain  kind  of  importance  from  the  dig 
nity  of  their  adversary.  But  he  will  compel  even 
this  opposition  into  subserviency  to  himself,  just  as 
the  mariner  obliges  the  wind  that  opposes  him  to 
help  him  forward. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  207 

THE  CONDUCT  OF  GREATNESS  AND  OF  WEAKNESS  IN  DISASTER. 

WHEN  a  political  demagogue  has  been  overthrown 
he  always  attempts  to  relieve  the  mortification  of  his 
disaster  by  a  charge  of  foul  play. 

There  was  a  greatness  in  the  fall  of  Sampson,  for 
he  overwhelmed  his  jeering  foes  with  himself.  But 
in  our  politician,  we  discover  only  a  loss  of  sight,  and 
an  impotent  hand  laid  to  the  pillars  of  the  temple. 
There  was  dignity  in  the  sufferings  of  Prometheus, 
for  his  invisible  mind  was  superior  to  agony.  But  in 
the  demagogue  we  see  only  the  flappings  of  the  vul 
ture,  and  hear  only  the  screams  of  the  victim. 

COMPANIONSHIP    A    SHIELD    TO     CRIME. 

VENALITY  in  others,  seems  to  conceal  one-half  its 
guilt  in  us.  The  reflection  that  our  neighbors  are  as 
bad  as  ourselves,  has  a  wonderful  effect  in  quieting 
conscience.  It  does  not  indeed  make  our  crimes  the 
less,  but  it  is  one  thing  to  commit  faults  in  the  so 
ciety  of  sinners,  and  another  thing  to  commit  them 
in  the  company  of  saints. 

WEAPONS    AND    WORDS   TO    SUIT    THE    MARK. 

THEY  who  cry  for  help  in  their  distress,  should  be 
the  last  to  crow  when  misfortunes  come  upon  their 
benefactor. 

Never  ward  off  a  bumblebee  with  a  cutlass;  or 
resort  to  the  solemnity  of  an  oath  to  meet  an  idle 
conjecture. 


208  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS. 

THE   SURFACE    OF    LIFE    AND    ITS    UNDER    CURRENT. 

GLANCES  at  men  and  things  seldom  penetrate  be 
yond  the  surface  of  their  subjects.  The  springs  of 
action,  the  habits  from  which  these  visible  forms  and 
features  take  their  shape,  remain  untouched.  Mo 
tives,  which  form  the  under  current  of  life,  and  which 
can  be  reached  only  by  patient  study,  or  a  profound 
sagacity,  are  seldom  essayed,  and  never  brought  dis 
tinctly  to  light. 

It  is  the  surface  of  life  at  which  most  men  look  ;  if 
the  face  of  the  stream  sparkles,  they  care  but  little 
for  the  darkness  and  tumult  which  prevail  in  its 
depths. 

THE    ACTION    OF    A    GREAT    MIND    AFTER    SUSPENSE. 

A  GIANT  mind  may  be  held  in  suspense,  but  that 
suspense  must  be  brief,  and  the  action  which  follows 
it  will  be  more  decided  and  energetic  in  consequence 
of  that  detention ;  just  as  a  stream  rushes  with  greater 
force  for  a  temporary  obstruction. 

A  GOOD  MAN'S  AGENCY  IS  ENDURING. 

THE  influence  of  the  good  man  ceases  not  at  death ; 
he,  as  the  visible  agent,  is  removed,  but  the  light  and 
influence  of  his  example  still  remain ;  and  the  moral 
elements  of  this  world  will  long  show  the  traces  of 
their  vigor  and  purity ;  just  as  the  western  sky,,  after 
the  sun  has  set,  still  betrays  the  glowing  traces  of  the 
departed  orb. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS.  209 

LOTTERIES    FOUNDED    IN    FRAUD    AND    DISSEMBLING. 

WERE  the  venders  of  lottery  tickets  to  publish  their 
honest  convictions  in  as  glaring  capitals  as  they  do 
their  prizes,  their  offices  would  be  the  resort  only  of 
those  who  could  not  read. 

CREDULITY    BETTER  THAN    SKEPTICISM. 

IN  estimating  the  claims  of  human  nature,  it  is 
better  to  err  on  the  side  of  credulity  than  skepticism, 
inasmuch  as  all  social  happiness  is  founded  on  mutual 
confidence. 

THE    PASSION    FOR   DRESS. 

AGE,  which  tames  all  other  passions,  never  subdues 
the  passion  for  dress  in  some  females.  Gay  costume 
for  advanced  life,  is  like  "  flowers  wreathed  around 
decay."  Splendid  jewelry  on  parchment  necks,  is 
worse  than  a  pun  cut  upon  a  tombstone. 

THE    IMMORTAL    REWARDS    OF    VIRTUE. 

VIRTUE  may  be  misrepresented,  persecuted,  con 
signed  to  the  grave ;  but  the  righteous  wake  not  more 
assuredly  to  the  reality  of  their  hopes,  than  does  vir 
tue  to  an  immortal  remembrance. 

MORAL    WRONG    FOLLOWED    BY    SUFFERING    IN    THIS    LIFE. 

THERE  is  not  a  selfish  or  vicious  action  of  which 
man  is  capable,  from  which  he  is  not  deterred,  by  a 
punitive  consequent  attendant  upon  it,  even  in  this 
life. 


210  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONICS. 

A  CONTENTIOUS    MAN    SOON  SPENT,  IF  NOT  CONTENDED  WITH. 

IF  a  person  is  bent  on  quarrelling  with  you,  leave 
him  to  do  the  whole  of  it  himself,  and  he  will  soon 
become  weary  of  his  unencouraged  occupation.  Even 
the  most  malicious  ram  will  soon  cease  to  butt  against 
a  disregarding  object,  and  will  usually  find  his  own 
head  more  injured  than  the  object  of  his  blind  ani 
mosity. 

EDITORIAL    DISREGARD    OF    COURTESY. 

SOME  editors  cast  themselves  so  far  beyond  those 
courtesies  which  obtain  between  well-bred  men,  that 
they  find  in  their  very  position  an  exemption  from 
responsibility.  No  man  who  has  clean  apparel  him 
self,  will  return  the  mud-balls  with  which  he  may  be 
assailed  by  one  who  has  taken  his  stand  in  the  ditch. 

THE    RADICAL    IN    OFFICE    AND    OIT. 

You  may  take  any  radical  you  please,  and  place 
him  in  an  office  of  dignity  and  emolument,  and  he 
will  very  soon  loose  all  his  levelling  notions.  If  a 
particle  of  the  loco  remain  in  him,  it  will  be  in  theory, 
not  practice.  When  we  see  men  going  barefoot  who 
can  afford  to  have  shoes,  without  coats  when  they 
have  credit  with  tailors,  and  living  in  log  cabins  when 
they  have  the  means  of  constructing  palaces,  we  shall 
believe  locoism  belongs  to  human  nature;  but  till 
then,  we  shall  consider  it  something  very  iniu-h 
governed  by  circumstances. 


APHOEISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND    LACONICS.  211 

THE    STAR    THAT    NEVER    SETS. 

THERE  is  one  star  that  will  never  disappoint  the 
hope  it  awakens ;  its  ray  is  never  dimmed,  and  it 
knows  no  going  down  ;  its  cheering  light  streams  on 
through  ages  of  tempest  and  change ;  earth  may  be 
darkened,  systems  convulsed,  planets  shaken  from 
their  spheres,  but  this  star  will  still  pour  its  steady, 
undiminished  light.  The  eye  that  is  turned  to  it  will 
gladden  in  its  tears ;  the  countenance  that  it  lights, 
sorrow  can  never  wholly  overcast ;  the  footstep  that 
falls  in  its  radiance  finds  no  gloom  even  at  the  portal 
of  the  grave.  It  is  the  star — 

First  in  night's  diadem — 

The  star,  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

THE  CAUSES  OF  NATIONAL  WEAL  AND  WOE. 

THE  destinies  of  a  nation  depend  less  on  the  great 
ness  of  the  few,  than  the  virtues  or  vices  of  the  many. 
Eminent  individuals  cast  further  the  features  of  her 
glory  or  shame  ;  but  the  realities  of  her  weal  or  woe 
lie  deep  in  the  great  mass.  The  curling  tops  of  lofty 
waves  are  the  crest  of  the  ocean,  but  from  its  depths 
flows  the  overpowering  strength  of  its  tides. 

THE    HIGHEST    IN    STATION    MOST    EXPOSED    TO    FALL. 

THEY  who  occupy  the  most  eminent  stations,  have 
the  most  at  stake  in  preserving  the  public  tranquillity  ; 
for  in  popular  convulsions,  as  in  earthquakes,  the 
highest  objects  are  the  first  to  topple  and  fall. 


212  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND   LACONJCS. 

THE    COST    OF    BEING    A    REFORMER. 

HE  who  maintains  the  right,  though  countenanced 
by  the  few,  and  opposes  the  wrong,  though  sanctioned 
by  the  many,  must  forego  all  expectations  of  popu 
larity  till  there  shall  be  less  to  censure  than  applaud 
in  human  conduct.  And  when  this  is  the  case,  the 
millennium  will  have  dawned. 

THE   SECRET    OP    A    FEMININE    WEAKNESS. 

A  LADY  of  fashion  will  sooner  excuse  a  freedom, 
flowing  from  admiration,  than  a  slight,  resulting  from 
indifference.  The  first  offence  has  the  pleasing  apol 
ogy  of  her  attractions ;  the  last  is  bold,  and  without 
an  alleviation.  But  the  mode  in  which  she  disposes 
of  the  two,  only  shows  that  her  love  of  admiration  is 
stronger  than  her  sense  of  propriety. 

EARLY    LOVE    IN   WOMAN. 

A  YOUNG  girl,  scarcely  yet  awake  to  the  mysteries 
of  her  nature,  and  fluttering  over  the  first  demon 
strations  of  Love,  is  like  a  child  sporting  on  the  rip 
pling  strand  of  the  sea,  when  a  high  tide  is  about 
coming  in. 

THE  REFORMER'S  REWARD. 

HE  who  writes  against  the  abuses  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lives,  must  depend  on  the  generosity  of  the 
few  for  his  bread,  and  the  malice  of  the  many  for  his 

fame. 


APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,   AND   LACONICS.  213 

SCURRILITY    BETRAYING    ITS    FOUL    NEST. 

SCURRILOUS  epithets  are  like  foul  birds,  which  tran 
siently  disturb  and  disfigure  the  foliage  of  the  trees 
on  which  they  light,  but  whose  nature  is  never  mis 
taken,  for  they  carry  on  their  feathers  the  pollutions 
of  the  nest  in  which  they  were  hatched. 

THE    MANAGEMENT    OF    RELIGIOUS    CONTROVERSY. 

IN  religious  controversy,  we  seldom  apply  the  Ba 
conian  philosophy  of  letting  facts  go  in  advance  and 
establish  the  theory.  We  rather  adopt  the  theory 
first,  and  then  go  on  in  search  of  facts  to  prove  it. 
How  few  there  are  who  take  the  Bible  alone  for  their 
theory,  and  allow  it  to  explain  itself !  One  thing  is 
remarkable  in  these  controversies  ;  men  seldom  differ 
in  general  principles  which  have  regard  to  outward 
conduct.  It  is  rather  in  matters  of  belief  in  regard 
to  some  minor  doctrine,  and  the  difference  is  so  small 
that  it  sometimes  requires  the  imagination  of  a  meta 
physician  to  perceive  the  difference.  If  all  the  words 
which  have  been  wasted  in  telling  people  what  they 
should  believe,  had  been  .employed  in  telling  them 
what  they  should  do,  the  world  would  be  much  better 
than  it  now  is.  A  celebrated  author  says — "  Two 
things,  well  considered,  would  prevent  many  quar 
rels  ;  first,  to  have  it  well  ascertained  whether  we  are 
not  disputing  about  terms  rather  than  things ;  and 
secondly,  to  examine  whether  that  on  which  we  differ 
is  worth  contending  about." 


214  APHORISMS,    MAXIMS,   AND    LACONICS. 

THE    WORTH    OF    SMILES    MEASURED    BY    THEIR    RARITY. 

A  MAN'S  smiles  should  be  like  fruit  on  a  high 
limb.  People  lightly  value  what  they  get  without 
pain.  If  diamonds  could  be  picked  up  among  the 
pebbles  of  our  brooks,  who  would  wear  them  for  or 
naments  ? 

THE    TRUE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    PUNISHMENT. 

IT  is  the  certainty  of  punishment,  rather  than  its 
severity,  which  prevents  crime.  Many  charged  with 
murder  now  escape  conviction  ;  some  through  a  feint 
of  insanity,  some  through  the  misapplied  sympathy 
of  a  juror,  and  others  through  a  moral  aversion,  to 
the  punishment  itself.  The  execution  of  the  sen 
tence,  too,  when  decreed,  often  loses  no  small  portion 
of  its  moral  force  from  bewildering  sympathy  with 
the  sufferer.  Should  imprisonment  for  life  be  ever 
substituted  for  capital  punishment,  the  possibility 
of  pardon  should  be  cut  off  from  every  source  what 
ever. 

M;.X    CONQUERED    THROUGH    SELF-ESTEEM    AND   THE    POCKET. 

IF  you  wish  to  make  use  of  a  man,  ascertain  the 
measure  of  his  susceptibility  to  flattery ;  for  all  that 
you  can  raise  him,  in  self-estimation,  will  be  at  your 
disposal.  Convince  any  man  that  you  can  teach  him 
to  play  on  two  fiddles,  equally  well,  at  the  same  time, 
and  he  will  promise  that  one  shall  be  played  mainly 
for  your  advantage. 


API1OKISMS,    MAXIMS,    AND    LACONICS.  215 

IGNORANCE    OF    ITS    TIME,  AN  ARGUMENT  FOR  HABITUAL  PRE 
PARATION    FOR    DEATH. 

DEATH  is  the  most  certain,  and  yet  the  most  un 
certain  of  events.  That  it  will  come,  no  one  can 
question  ;  but  when,  no  one  can  decide.  The  young 
behold  it  afar  in  the  future ;  the  aged  regard  it  still 
at  a  distance ;  but  both  are  smitten  suddenly  as  by 
a  bolt  from  the  cloud — a  serpent  from  the  brake — or 
a  shaft  from  an  unseen  quiver.  There  is  no  safety, 
therefore,  save  in  that  habitual  preparation  which 
nothing  can  deceive,  and  nothing  surprise. 


AN  UNFINISHED  SATIRE,  IN  VERSE, 


I  WANT — what  Byron  wanted  once — a  hero, 
On  whose  achievements  I  can  hang  my  rhymes : 

He  might  as  well  have  taken  Faust,  or  Nero, 
As  Juan,  young  in  years,  and  old  in  crimes : — 

But  then  no  doubt  his  choice  was  made  at  random, 

Besides — "de  gustibus  non  disputandum." 


n. 

The  "  est"  has  been  left  out  in  this  quotation, 
As  its  insertion  would  destroy  my  measure  ; 

But  then  its  strict  grammatical  relation 

The  learned  reader  can  restore  at  pleasure ; 

And  will,  no  doubt,  with  something  very  fine 

About  my  mangling  thus  his  classic  line. 


in. 

A  fop  in  learning,  and  a  downright  fool, 
Differ,  but  in  their  claims  upon  our  pity ; 

The  first  still  prating  Greek,  picked  up  at  school, 
The  last  essaying  something  grave  or  witty ; 

Both  stir  those  subtle  thoughts  in  him  who  hears, 

Which  burst  in  laughter,  or  dissolve  in  tears. 
10 


218  A   SATIRE    IN   VERSE. 

IV. 

I  want  a  hero  free  of  affectation, 

All  coarse  vulgarity,  or  mock  sublime ; 

Whose  deeds  can  bear  no  misinterpretation, 

Too  frank  for  falsehood,  and  untouched  by  crime 

A  sternly  honest  man,  plain,  and  free-spoken, 

And  one  whose  word  once  given,  is  never  broken. 

v. 

I  want  a  hero  free  of  self-conceit, 
Of  resolute,  and  self-relying  spirit ; 

Exempt  from  pride,  vindictiveness,  deceit, 
Commanding  by  the  force  of  his  own  merit: 

No  woman's  slave,  yet  sensible  to  love — 

"  Wise  as  the  serpent,  harmless  as  the  dove." 

VI. 

Of  course  I  shall  not  go  among  the  lawyers 
To  find  me  such  a  being — a  profession 

Whose  conscience  always  sticks  to  their  employers, 
And  who  maintain,  in  spite  of  his  confession, 

A  client's  innocence — advising  him  to  plead 

Not  guilty — though  he  has  confessed  the  deed. 


VII. 

Nor  will  I  take  a  thorough-bred  physician, 
Of  all,  the  most  accomplished  homicide; 

He  kills  his  patients  with  such  learned  pivc'i>i<>ii, 
Men  swear  'twas  of  the  fell  disease  he  died ; 

And  then  forestalls  the  final  resurrection, 

And  disinhumes  his  victim  for  dissection. 


A   SATIRE   IN    VEK6E.  219 

vm. 

Nor  yet,  select  my  hero  from  the  clergy, 

Of  whom,  are  some  blind  leaders  of  the  blind ; 

And  others  with  a  threat  of  hell  will  urge  ye 
Direct  to  heaven — and  stay  themselves  behind ; 

But  some  there  are,  and  many  such,  I  trust, 

Whom  Christ  will  place  at  last  among  the  Just. 

IX. 

Nor  will  I  take  a  modern  politician, 

His  party's  oracle,  and  polar  star, 
Inflated  with  the  pomp  of  his  position, 

Like  Phaeton  in  Jove's  imperial  car : 
His  prototype  fell  in  the  roaring  Po, 
But  he  will  probably  bring  up  below. 


x. 

Nor  will  I  choose  a  poet — one  of  those 

Who  weep  themselves  to  make  their  readers  weep, 
But  find  at  last,  o'er  all  their  unveiled  woes, 

Mankind  in  sneering  laughter — or  asleep  ; 
Then  try  another  phase  in  mortal  sadness, 
And  feign  a  fatal  touch  of  downright  madness. 


XI. 

Nor  will  I  take  an  antiquary  :  he 

Would  sack  a  city— sift  a  nation's  dust, 

To  find  a  copper — then  in  ecstasy 

Hang  o'er  its  letters,  eaten  out  by  rust — 

At  last,  on  good  authority,  restore 

A  name  and  date  it  never  had  before. 


220  A   SATIRE   IN   VERSE. 

xn. 

Nor  yet  a  dandy,  alias  a  fool, 

Although  no  doubt  he  never  plead  the  latter, 
In  bar  of  being  soundly  whipped  to  school : 

He  seems  a  creature  boon  to  fawn  and  flatter, 
And  thinks  each  woman  some  celestial  dove, 
With  his  exquisite  beauty  deep  in  love. 

xra. 

Nor  will  I  take  a  broker :  he's  a  sharper, 

Who  outwits  others — then's  himself  outwitted; 

In  purchasing  he  plays  the  croaking  carper, 
But  sells  as  if  another's  wants  were  pitied : 

Alike  in  puff,  and  pity  insincere, 

The  first  a  lie,  the  last  without  a  tear. 


XIV. 

Nor  will  I  take  a  tailor — his  sly  theft 

Is  now  notorious  as  his  shears  or  goose:     % 

The  Bible  says  a  remnant  shall  be  left, 

And  this,  by  his  interpretation— rather  loose — 

Refers  to  cabbage  filched  from  you  and  me : 

The  devil  quoted  Scripture,  so  can  he. 


xv. 

Nor  will  I  take  a  woman — her  creation 

Was  left  entirely  out  in  Heaven's  first  plan : 

If  rightly  I  interpret  Revelation, 

The  earth  was  first  created,  and  then  man ; 

And  both  were  perfect,  free  of  sin  and  pride, 

While  woman  slumbered  still  in  Adam's  sick-. 


A  SATIRE   IN  VEKSE.  221 


XVI. 

When  waked  to  being,  what  was  her  first  act 
But  one  of  weakness,  guilt,  and  endless  shame  ? 

And  when  accused  of  this,  adroitly  packed 
On  Satan's  shoulders  almost  all  the  blame, 

Or  sought  to  do  so  ;  but  she  did  not  try, 

Like  modern  knaves — to  prove  an  alibi. 


XVII. 

But  let  this  pass — to  Adam,  Eve  was  dear, 
Dearer,  perhaps,  than  had  she  never  erred, 

As  will  from  his  own  elegy  appear : 

No  heart  by  deeper  grief  was  ever  stirred, 

Or  overcast  with  darker  clouds  of  woe, 

Than  that  from  which  these  tender  accents  flow : — 

XVIII. 

1  Sweet  solace  of  my  life !  my  gentle  Eve ! 

The  idol  of  this  heart  thy  beauty  blest! 
More  than  for  Eden's  early  loss  I  grieve 

To  close  the  earth  above  thy  narrow  rest. 
What  now  to  me  fair  sky,  or  sparkling  wave, 
Or  day,  or  night,  since  thou  art  in  the  grave ! 


XIX. 

"  Forgive  the  frown  that  darkened  on  my  brow, 

And  fell  on  thy  sweet  face  like  an  eclipse, 
When  the  fair,  |atal  fruit  was  plucked  its  bough, 

And  turned  to  ashes  on  our  pallid  lips : 
Thy  thirst  for  knowledge  triumphed  o'er  thy  fears, 
And  prompted  crime,  since  cancelled  by  thy  tears. 


222  A   SATIRE    IN    VERSE. 

XX. 

"  When  I  remind  me  of  the  noontide  hour 

I  first  beheld  thee,  near  Euphrates'  stream, 
And  led  thee,  sweetly  blushing,  to  my  bower, 

The  ills  that  we  have  felt  appear  a  dream ; 
So  warm  and  blest,  the  memory  of  the  time 
When  thou  wert  faultless — I  without  a  crime. 


XXI. 

"  How  freshly  on  our  slumbers  broke  the  morn ! 

How  sweet  the  music  of  the  mountain  stream  ! 
How  all  things  seemed  of  bliss  and  beauty  born, 

And  bounding  into  life  with  day's  young  beam ! 
Alas!  the  sin  that  could  such  joys  forego, 
And  fill  an  infant  world  with  guilt  and  woe ! 


XXII. 

M  But  mine  the  fault,  for  I  stood  silent  by, 

Nor  sought  dissuasion  by  a  look  or  sign  ; 
But,  dazzled  by  the  tempter's  gorgeous  lie, 

That  we  should  be  than  gods  scarce  less  divine, 
Assented,  fell ;  and  found,  too  late  to  save, 
This  virtue  guilt — its  only  gift  the  grave. 


XXIII. 

"  But  Eden  lost,  this  heart  still  found  in  thee 
A  depth  of  love  it  else  had  never  known  ; 
As  clings  the  vine  to  its  sustaining  tree, 

When  'gainst  its  form  the  tempest's  strength  is  thrown, 
So  thou,  as  each  new  care  or  sorrow  pressed, 
The  closer  clung  to  this  unshrinking  breast. 


A   SATIRE   IN   VERSE.  223 

XXIV. 

;  The  birds  still  sing,  to  wake  thee  from  thy  rest ; 

The  young  gazelle  still  waits  to  greet  thy  glance ; 
The  flowers  still  bloom  thy  early  cares  caressed ; 

Thy  shallop's  sails  still  in  the  sunbeams  dance. 
Oh,  that  on  these  unheeding  things  were  spread 
The  deep  and  tender  thought,  that  thou  art  dead ! 


XXV. 

"  But  now,  to  whom  can  my  deep  sorrows  turn  ? 

Where  find  in  others'  tears  for  mine  relief? 
I  only  live  to  dress  thy  gentle  urn, 

And  shrine  thy  virtues  in  a  widowed  grief, 
Till  near  thy  side  I  seek  my  native  dust, 
And  wait  that  signal  trump  that  calls  the  just." 


XXVI. 

This  elegy,  or  epitaph,  was  found 

Graved  on  a  golden  urn  near  Eden's  site, 

Within  the  centre  of  a  mighty  mound — 
And  by  a  recent  earthquake  hove  to  light : 

A  traveller,  halting  there  to  sip  a  cup 

Of  Mocha-coffee,  saw  the  urn  come  up ! 


xxvn. 

The  elegy  was  set  around  with  gems, 

Which  flashed  a  radiance  on  its  Hebrew  letters 

Like  that  which  falls  from  Moslem  diadems 
Upon  a  Christian  slave's  indignant  fetters : 

The  truthful  traveller  says,  the  light  they  gave 

Might  wake  a  young  Aurora  in  the  grave ! 


224  A  SATIRE  IN  VERSE. 

xxvni. 

This  urn  our  new  lights  in  geology 
Maintain  upsets  the  credibility 

Of  all  our  Scriptural  chronology : 

The  earth,  they  say,  then  in  its  infancy, 

And  man  a  savage,  without  steel  or  derrick, 

Could  never  have  bequeathed  us  such  a  relic ! 


XXIX. 

These  savans  find  on  mountain-tops  a  shell, 
And  say  the  deluge  never  placed  it  there ; 

They  see  in  caves  a  petrified  blue-bell, 
And  think  it  never  bloomed  in  upper  air ; 

And  therefore  gravely  tell  us — age  of  wonders  !- 

The  Book  of  Genesis  is  full  of  blunders ! 


XXX. 

But  to  my  tardy  theme,  or  rather,  story, — 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  christen  it  a  song, 

As  it  is  written  less  for  gold  than  glory; 
And  any  madrigal  may  be  as  long, 

Unless,  as  often  happens  near  the  sun, 

The  maiden  wooed  is  in  the  mean  time  won. 

XXXI. 

This  shall  be  brief— I  do  detest  great  length 
In  any  thing,  unless  it  be  a  kiss ; 

And  that,  I  think,  oft  loses  half  its  strength, 
By  such  a  prolongation  of  the  bliss ; 

For,  after  all,  nothing  the  heart  can  capture 

So  much  as  brevity  in  wit  and  rapture. 


A   SATIRE   IN   VERSE.  225 


XXXII. 

I  cannot  bear  great  length,  even  in  a  sermon, 

Except  where  thoughts  their  heavenly  truth  instil 

Sweetly  as  fall  on  flowers  the  dews  of  Hermon, 
And  musical  as  rolls  the  mountain  rill ; 

But  when  you  would  the  stupid  sinner  start, 

Then  pour  the  truth  in  thunder  on  his  heart. 

XXXIII. 

Some  austere  writers  stamp  with  guilt  and  shame 
Whatever  in  this  world  of  fair  and  good 

May  still  remain  :  yet  from  the  folding  flame 
Which  wraps  the  freshness  of  the  forest  wood, 

As  scattered  trees  escape,  so  may  we  find 

Surviving  virtues  in  the  ruined  mind. 

XXXIV. 

Now  unrequited  love  is  seen  deriving 
Its  very  life  from  out  its  own  despair ; — 

The  mother,  for  her  infant  boy  contriving 

Those  schemes  of  future  good  she  may  not  share  ;- 

The  sister,  sweetly  winning  back  to  truth 

The  erring  wildness  of  a  brother's  youth. 

xxxv. 

Here,  too,  is  found  the  young  and  guileless  girl, 
Whose  joyous  heart  is  fettered  by  a  tie 

She  scarce  can  comprehend. — Deep  as  the  pearl 
In  Oman's  wave,  and  pure,  those  fountains  lie, 

From  which  the  soft,  mysterious  feeling  springs, 

Like  magic  tones  from  undiscovered  strings, 
10* 


226  A   SATLRE    IN    YEKSE. 

XXXVI. 

The  symptoms  of  this  tender  passion  are, 
The  downward  castings  of  a  pensive  eye, 

A  countenance  not  wholly  free  from  care, 
The  scarcely  heard,  yet  all-absorbing  sigh, 

A  want  of  interest  in  what's  said  or  seen, 

Mixed  with  a  certain  carelessness  of  mien. 


xxxvn. 

I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  there  are  words 
Found  in  the  soft  complainings  of  the  dove, 

As  well  as  merrier  notes  of  other  birds, 
That  seems  the  truest  syllables  of  love; 

The  very  language  which,  if  man  might  choose, 

Would  be  the  only  one  that  he  would  use. 

xxxvin. 

A  man  in  love  is  fond  of  solitude : 
He  flies  away  from  busy  life  and  men 

To  some  sublime  interminable  wood ; 

Some  deep,  unknown,  and  almost  sunless  glen; 

For  nature  there  seems  just  as  she  had  caught 

The  very  hue  and  coloring  of  his  thought. 

XXXIX. 

He  loves  to  wander  on  the  shore  of  ocean, 
To  hear  the  light  waves  ripple  on  the  beach  ; 

For  there  is  something  in  their  murmuring  motion 
Closely  allied  to  language,  and  can  tench 

His  young,  unpractised  heart  the  very  tone 

Of  passionate  tenderness  that  is  love's  own. 


A   SATIRE   IN    VERSE.  227 

XL. 

He  loves  to  wander  on  a  starlit  night 

Along  the  pebbly  margin  of  a  lake, 
Whose  tranquil  bosom  mirrors  to  his  sight 

The  dewy  stars — where  not  a  wave  nor  wake 
Disturbs  the  slumbering  surface,  nor  a  sound 
Is  heard  from  out  the  deep-hushed  forests  round. 


XLI. 

And  there  each  star  lies  in  the  tranquil  water 
So  tremulous,  so  tenderly  serene, 

He  can  but  think  it  is  the  tintless  daughter 
Of  that  pure  element  in  which  'tis  seen  ; 

For  there  it  lies,  so  bright,  so  sweetly  fair, 

It  seems  a  sinless  spirit  dwelling  there ! 


XML 
A  sentimental  youth  makes  love  in  posies ; 

His  fluttering  heart  is  veined  on  every  leaf; 
The  perfume,  only  meant  to  please  our  noses, 

Exhales  the  tender  touches  of  his  grief: 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  nuptial  noose  is  thrown 
Around  some  heart  as  silly  as  his  own. 


XLUI. 
Oh !  how  unlike  to  this  soft,  floral  wooing 

Was  theirs  whom  we  are  proud  to  call  our  sires ! 
They  left  to  doves  such  simpering,  senseless  cooing, 

And,  seated  'round  their  ever  social  fires, 
With  right  good  common  sense  talked  o'er  the  matter, 
And  ne'er  forgot  the  pudding-bag  and  platter. 


228  A   SATIRE   IN   VERSE. 

XLIV. 

Let  their  example  teach  our  young  and  gay, 
Who  plunge  in  marriage  as  a  mere  diversion, 

And  seem  to  think  that  state  a  holiday — 
That  love,  which  can  survive  a  stern  reversion 

Of  all  its  outward  fortune,  is  a  thing 

Not  taught  by  flowers — they  only  bloom  in  spring. 


XLV. 

Let  those  who  kindle  at  the  slightest  spark 
Of  Cupid's  torch,  and  go  off  like  a  rocket, 

Without  an  aim,  an  object,  or  a  mark, 

Con  o'er  the  dying  words  of  David  Crocket : 
"  This  maxim  keep  in  force — when  I  am  dead — 

See  first  that  you  are  right,  then  go  ahead !" 


SELECTED  EDITORIALS 


FROM 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  NORTH  AMERICAN. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  EDITORIALS, 


THE  TRUE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS. 

THERE  is  no  country  in  the  world  where  there  is 
more  talk  about  the  freedom  of  the  press  than  in  this, 
and  no  one,  perhaps,  where  less  of  it  is  enjoyed.  The 
fetters  come  not  in  the  shape  of  arbitrary  law,  or  the 
prohibitions  of  absolute  censorship,  but  in  a  form 
little  less  effective.  The  fear  of  giving  offence,  or  of 
saying  something  that  may  possibly  clash  with  the 
interests  of  a  subscriber,  exerts  a  more  paralyzing 
influence  than  any  mandate  of  regal  jealousy  or 
despotic  sway.  There  is  no  antagonist  so  difficult  to 
contend  with  as  a  man's  own  fears.  Against  this  foe 
he  has  no  heart,  no  resolution.  He  has  not  even  that 
little  courage  which  resentment  can  impart. 

Let  the  press  yield  to  these  fears,  and  the  greatest 
sufferers  would  be  they  who  create  them.  They 
would  hear  the  language  of  commendation  and  flat 
tery,  but  rarely  that  of  impartiality  and  truth.  It  is 
often  the  most  unwelcome  sentiments  for  which  we 
should  be  the  most  grateful.  We  get  into  the  right 
by  being  told  that  we  are  in  the  wrong.  But  this 


232  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

lesson  comes  from  those  only  who  respect  its  more 
than  they  respect  our  prejudices ;  who  would  sooner 
censure  and  correct,  than  flatter  and  betray. 

We  do  not  propose  to  establish  in  this  paper  any 
claims  to  praise  for  independence  of  thought,  speech, 
or  opinion,  but  we  wish  to  escape  the  humiliation  of 
the  opposite.  There  is  no  merit  in  exercising  all  the 
freedom  which  we  claim,  but  there  would  be  a  re 
proach  in  surrendering  it.  Our  sea  notions  of  liberty 
may,  perhaps,  require  too  much  scope  for  the  land. 
But  it  would  be  a  little  singular  if  that  freedom  of 
thought  which  is  acquired  under  the  monarchical 
forms  of  ship  discipline,  should  prove  too  much  for 
republicans  and  democrats. 

We  claim  no  freedom  of  Speech  which  we  shall 
not  allow  in  others,  and  in  our  own  columns  too. 
Any  man  who  sustains  this  press,  differing  with  us 
in  opinion  on  any  point,  may  here,  frankly,  fearlessly, 
express  his  dissent.  He  may  combat  our  opinions ; 
he  may  assail  our  arguments,  and,  if  he  can,  over 
throw  our  conclusions.  It  is  the  conflict  of  mind 
with  mind  that  discovers  moral  truth,  and  reaches 
those  great  social  and  political  principles  on  which 
the  honor  and  happiness  of  communities  repose.  It 
is  the  wise  and  the  good  that  we  should  pursue ;  it  is 
the  right  that  we  should  seek,  and  to  which  we  should 
pay  our  homage,  wherever  found.  Truth  never  for 
sakes  its  friends,  never  disappoints  the  confidence  it 
has  won.  It  may  at  times  be  overpowered,  but  it 


EIGHTS   OF   PRIVATE  JUDGMENT.  233 

lives  on  still,  and  will  yet  assert  its  unconquerable 
energies.  While  error  will  inevitably  cover  its  vota 
ries  with  dismay. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  will  rise  again, 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 
While  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  amid  its  worshippers. 

RIGHTS    OF    PRIVATE   JUDGMENT. 

PROSCRIPTION  for  political  opinions,  and  martyr 
doms  for  forms  of  religious  faith,  differ  but  in  the 
degrees  of  suffering  which  they  inflict.  They  are  the 
same  in  their  natures ;  they  both  flow  from  the  same 
spirit  of  cruel  intolerance,  and  both  merit  the  repro 
bation  of  mankind.  They  are  a  violation  of  the  rights 
of  the  citizen,  guarantied  to  him  by  the  constitution 
under  which  he  lives ;  they  are  an  outrage  upon  every 
instinct  of  humanity,  and  every  cherished  sentiment 
of  moral  justice. 

The  pilgrim  fathers  who  planted  our  institutions, 
and  the  revered  patriots  who  achieved  our  indepen 
dence,  never  dreamed  that  the  day  would  come  when 
their  children  would  be  dragged  to  the  political  guil 
lotine,  for  having  exercised  the  rights  of  American 
freemen.  Such  a  spectacle,  even  in  prophetic  vision, 
would  have  cast  as  sickly  a  light  over  their  last  mo 
ments,  as  the  face  of  Cain  in  his  fratricidal  guilt  on 
the  dying  countenance  of  Adam. 

There  is  nothing  in  despotism,  in  its  most  absolute 
forms,  so  revolting  as  these  political  hecatombs,  which 


234:  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

are  offered  on  the  altars  of  party  proscription  as  often 
as  a  new  aspirant  reaches  the  executive  chair  of  the 
nation.  Tyranny  is  consistent ;  it  professes  to  know 
no  rights  but  its  own ;  but  republicanism  is  full  of 
professions  of  regard  for  the  rights  of  others.  It  calls 
every  lover  of  freedom  its  brother,  and  then  stabs 
him  "under  the  fifth  rib."  Because  he  conscien 
tiously  supported,  at  the  ballot-box,  a  different  person 
than  the  one  who  has  succeeded,  his  head  must  be 
brought  to  the  block.  His  capacity,  his  integrity, 
his  past  services,  weigh  nothing  against  the  crime  of 
having  voted  as  his  judgment  dictated.  He  is  visited 
with  the  last  penalties  of  a  law  which  knows  no  for 
giveness^  no  mercy,  no  remorse.  And  this  is  called 
freedom,  republicanism,  and  liberty  of  conscience ! 
Never  were  revered  names  so  mocked  and  blas 
phemed. 

Let  us  cease  to  talk  about  the  serfs  of  Europe  till 
we  have  made  ourselves  free.  Let  us  cease  to  prate 
about  the  horrors  and  crimes  of  the  Bastile,  while 
the  guillotine  overshadows  our  own  ballot-box.  There 
is  scarce  a  dungeon  in  the  Inquisition  where  the 
rights  of  private  judgment  have  not  been  as  much 
respected  as  they  are  in  the  results  of  a  presidential 
election. 

EDITORIAL    RESPONSIBILITY. 

THERE  is,  we  apprehend,  no  class  of  men  in  the 
country,  that  exert  their  influence  so  recklessly  as 


EDITORIAL   RESPONSIBILITY.  235 

the  conductors  of  public  journals.  They  appear, 
many  of  them,  to  have  no  steady  polar  star  by  which 
to  direct  their  course.  They  are,  like  a  hulk  on  the 
ocean,  carried  away  by  every  current  that  prevails. 
We  do  not  expect  them  to  be  more  than  human ;  but 
it  does  not  require  an  angel's  decision  or  energy  to 
hold  something  like  a  consistent  course  through  the 
moral  and  political  elements  of  this  world.  It  is  the 
suggestions  of  self-interest,  the  heat  of  party  strife, 
and  the  absence  of  fixed  principles,  that  give  rise  to 
all  this  inconsistency  and  insane  deportment. 

Most  of  the  blind  and  irrational  excitements  that 
disturb  the  tranquillity  of  the  public,  originate  with 
the  press,  or  are  fostered  by  it,  with  the  hope  of  turn 
ing  them  to  some  political  or  sinister  account.  We 
do  not  implicate  the  whole  editorial  fraternity  in  this 
charge.  There  are  not  a  few  noble  exceptions.  But 
how  many  of  them  are  there,  who  have  nothing  to 
guide  their  devious  steps  but  the  fluctuating  light  of 
a  transient  policy !  And  hence  it  is  that  the  men 
and  measures  that  are  cursed  one  year,  are  applauded 
the  next ;  and  one  system  of  operations  is  buried  in 
ignominy,  only  that  its  moldering  remains  may  be 
brought  again  to  the  light,  and  invested  with  all  the 
fascinations  of  a  fresh  existence.  Had  Satan's  course 
from  hell  to  Eden  been  as  crooked  as  that  of  some 
editors,  he  would  not  have  reached  it  to  this  day ! 


236  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

PUBLIC    MEN. 

THE  test  of  public  men  which,  doubtless,  prevails 
to  a  very  great  extent  in  this  country,  is  faithfulness 
to  party  and  sectional  interests,  and  the  determina 
tion  and  the  ability  to  bear  them  onward,  in  defiance 
of  justice  and  of  truth.  Thus,  while  with  entire 
propriety  we  shun  and  stigmatize  the  religious  test 
of  England,  we  actually  use  one  ourselves  which  is 
far  more  abominable,  and  dangerous  to  liberty. 

It  is  beyond  dispute  that  our  public  offices  ought 
to  be  filled  with  men  who,  in  some  way  or  other, 
excel.  This  is  implied  in  the  very  idea  of  an  election. 
But  it  is  equally  dishonorable  and  dangerous  to  cast 
our  votes,  or  raise  our  voice,  in  favor  of  those  who 
have  nothing  to  commend  them  but  the  insidious 
power  to  rise  without  merit,  or  their  indissoluble  ad 
hesion,  with  an  utter  recklessness  of  principle,  to  the 
ranks  of  a  party.  It  is  high  time  that  both  these 
characteristics  should  serve  only  as  a  dead- weight  to 
sink  those  who  bear  them  far  beneath  the  level  of 
negative  qualities. 

What,  then,  are  the  proper  inquiries  to  be  made 
respecting  those  proposed  to  be  the  rulers  of  this 
republic  ?  Is  Tie  honest — is  Tie  capable  ?  is  a  proverb 
in  every  mouth ;  but  seldom,  indeed,  does  it  reach 
the  heart,  or  govern  the  practice.  It  dies  by  the 
poison  of  political  intrigue,  or  is  blasted  by  the  bivut  h 
of  party.  Still  it  is  the  genuine  watchword  of  liberty, 
and  the  only  one  that  can  secure  its  safety.  Let  every 


INDEPENDENCE   OF   CHARACTER.  237 

patriot,  then,  do  his  utmost  to  give  it  power  and  dis 
tinctness.  Let  those  individuals  and  parties  who 
in  practice  discard  it,  be  marked  as  unworthy  of 
freedom,  and  the  real  foes  of  their  country. 

Let  the  qualifications  and  character  of  candidates 
be  extensively  and  accurately  known,  and  for  this 
purpose  let  the  venders  of  political  delusion  be  held 
in  universal  abhorrence.  Let  suspicion  no  longer 
breathe  its  calumnies,  while  silence  conceals  or  per 
fidy  praises  the  daring  violation  of  vital  and  invalu 
able  principles.  Let  those  who  pass  the  rubicon  that 
guards  the  Constitution  and  laws  of  the  nation,  under 
the  pretence  of  their  country's  good,  meet  their  own, 
and  not  their  country's  ruin.  And  let  it  be  forever 
taken  for  granted,  as  a  self-evident  and  immutable 
truth,  that  the  dishonesty  of  political  craft,  and  the 
weakness,  vices,  and  obliquities  of  private  conduct, 
can  never  be  regenerated  or  sanctified  by  the  eleva 
tion  of  power  or  the  robe  of  authority. 

INDEPENDENCE  OF  CHARACTER. 

POLITICAL  partisans  are  the  last  men  who  have  any 
claims  to  independence  of  character •  and  this  con 
viction  has  not  been  weakened  by  the  manner  in 
which  most  of  the  measures  have  been  disposed  of 
that  have  been  introduced  upon  the  floor  of  Congress. 
Indeed,  if  any  body  of  legislators  can  be  excused  from 
consulting  their  own  innate  convictions,  and  from 
acting  upon  the  decisions  of  their  private  judgments, 


238  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

it  is  the  very  body  that  assembles  daily  in  our  Rep 
resentatives'  Hall. 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  bound  up  confessedly 
to  the  will  of  their  constituents,  right  or  wrong ;  and, 
in  the  next  place,  they  are  bound  up  to  their  political 
party,  and  threatened,  in  case  of  dissent,  with  all  the 
opprobrious  epithets  of  hypocrite,  renegade,  and  trai 
tor.  Under  such  circumstances,  it  is  hardly  reason 
able  to  expect  that  a  man  will  consult  his  private 
convictions,  and  act  upon  the  simple  responsibilities 
of  his  own  understanding.  Hence  it  is  that  every 
question  capable  of  a  political  bearing,  is  decided  by 
party  considerations :  the  merits  of  a  measure,  its 
connection  with  the  righteous  claims  of  an  individual, 
or  the  reasonable  expectations  of  a  community,  are 
forgotten,  and  it  is  doomed  to  stand  or  fall  just  ac 
cording  to  its  political  complexion. 

The  true  source  of  all  this  evil  is  found  in  the  dis 
tempered  corrupted  state  of  public  sentiment ;  it  flows 
from  that  violent  party  spirit  which  is  poisoning  the 
heart  of  the  nation.  Public  legislators  are  like  other 
men;  they  are  not  exempt  from  the  infirmities  of  our 
common  nature ;  and  when  the  country  is  shaken 
and  convulsed  by  the  tempests  of  party  strife,  they 
must  participate  largely  in  the  shock — the  vessel 
must  move  with  the  storms  and  currents  which  agi 
tate  the  ocean. 

When  the  people  wish  for  legislative  measures 
which  shall  be  honorable  and  beneficial  to  the  coun- 


MORALS    IN   POLITICS.  230 

try,  they  must  calm  their  own  passions,  lay  aside  their 
sectional  feelings,  surrender  their  party  distinctions, 
and  delegate  men  to  represent  them  who,  unseduced 
by  flattery  or  unawed  by  frowns,  will  lean  upon  their 
own  convictions,  and  surrender  themselves  to  the  un 
prejudiced  decisions  of  an  enlightened  understanding. 

MORALS    IN    POLITICS. 

THE  political  principles  which  a  man  entertains, 
and  which  he  asserts  at  the  ballot-box,  reach  to  the 
happiness  or  woe  of  millions.  They  embrace  in  their 
ultimate  results  the  safety  or  ruin  of  nations.  In  as 
serting  these  principles,  therefore,  whether  with  the 
pen,  or  through  the  rights  of  the  elective  franchise,  a 
man  should  ever  feel  the  high  responsibility  under 
which  he  acts. 

What  are  personal  preferences,  or  mere  party 
triumphs,  when  weighed  in  the  scale  against  such 
tremendous  issues  ?  They  are  less  than  the  dust  of 
the  balance.  Petty  jealousies  and  private  prefer 
ences  cannot  live  for  a  moment  in  the  breast  of  one 
who  feels  the  full  force  of  the  political  principles 
which  he  avows.  As  well  might  a  man  be  wrapt  in 
the  dread  magnificence  of  the  ocean,  and  busy  him 
self  with  the  chafing  pebbles  of  its  shore. 

Our  forefathers  felt  the  force  of  principles.  Their 
reverence  for  truth,  their  devotion  to  those  great 
moral  rights  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  social 
virtue  and  political  freedom,  forced  them,  through 


240  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 


countless  perils,  to  these  inhospitable  shores.  More 
welcome  to  them  the  wilderness,  with  their  princi 
ples,  than  palaces  without.  "When  these  principles 
were  invaded,  they  rose  in  arms,  and  put  their  lives, 
their  fortunes,  all  interests  this  side  the  grave,  at  is 
sue  in  their  defence.  Their  faith  in  these  principles 
never  wavered :  they  baptized  them  with  their  blood, 
and  bequeathed  them  to  us,  and  shed  upon  them  the 
benediction  of  their  dying  prayers. 

Shall  we  trifle  with  these  sacred  legacies  ?  Shall 
we  sport  with  the  blessings  which  they  bestow,  or 
the  responsibility  which  they  impose  ?  Shall  party 
names,  or  private  ambition,  be  substituted  for  their 
inestimable  benefits  ?  Let  those  who  are  now  assem 
bling  in  the  capitol  of  this  nation  answer  these  ques 
tions.  Their  example  must  reach  the  extremities  of 
the  land,  and  mold  opinions  long  after  they  are  in  the 
grave.  Our  influence  over  others,  remote  as  well  as 
near,  when  we  are  dead  as  well  as  when  living,  en 
ters  into  the  sum  of  our  virtue  or  guilt,  our  merit 
or  our  shame. 


MORALS    OF    CONGRESS. 


IF  our  obligations  keep  pace  with  our  opportuni 
ties,  then  men  in  eminent  public  stations  are  under 
a  fearful  responsibility.  They  are  not  at  liberty  to 
feel  and  act  as  those  who  move  in  humbler  spheres  ; 
their  situation  demands  higher  sentiments  and  more 
elevated  endeavors.  The  influence  attached  to  their 


MORALS    OF    CONGRESS. 


example  is  enough  to  make  one  tremble  :  if  pure,  it 
will  be  a  fountain  of  moral  life  ;  if  depraved,  it  will 
convey  to  the  hearts  of  multitudes  the  immedicable 
sickness  of  the  second  death. 

Do  the  public  men  who  annually  assemble  in  our 
Capitol  at  Washington  realize  this  truth  ?  Do  they 
rightly  estimate  the  consequences  which  must  flow 
from  their  morals  as  \vell  as  their  measures  ?  Do  they 
feel  that  every  virtue  or  vice  practised  there  is  to  af 
fect  the  character  of  a  nation  ?  With  these  truths  be 
fore  them  can  they  stoop  to  folly?  Can  they  pass 
around  the  intoxicating  bowl?  Can  they  mingle  with 
the  reckless  and  profane  at  the  gambling  board  ?  Can 
they  defile  the  sanctity  of  their  office  in  the  haunts  of 
licentiousness  ? 

We  would  not  throw  out  an  indiscriminate  censure 
or  suspicion.  There  are  men  in  that  body  to  which 
we  allude,  of  a  purity  of  life  that  may  fearlessly  chal 
lenge  the  strictest  scrutiny.  But  we  have  reason  for 
believing  that  there  are  those  also  whose  conduct  is 
deplorably  at  variance  with  their  professions,  and 
at  war  with  those  virtues  on  which  the  purity  and 
peace  of  society  depend.  These  men  seem  to  leave 
the  mantle  of  their  correct  habits  at  home,  and  to 
divest  themselves  of  that  sense  of  responsibility 
which  the  presence  of  domestic  piety  and  affection 
impose. 

We  cannot  conceive  of  a  more  infamous  breach  of 
trust  than  what  that  man  is  guilty  of,  who  finds  in 
11 


24:2  SELECTED   EDITOlilALS. 

the  ignorant  credulity  of  absent  friends  a  release  from 
the  wholesome  restraints  of  morality.  It  is  a  species 
of  deception  and  treachery  as  much  to  be  reprobated 
as  that  open  profligacy  which  may  be  much  more 
callous  to  shame. 


PROFANITY    IN    THE    SENATE. 

SEVERAL  of  the  members  of  this  body  are  in  the 
familiar  habit  of  using  the  name  of  the  Supreme 
Being  for  the  sake  of  giving  emphasis  to  a  weak  or 
worthless  sentence — and  of  hauling  into  their  speeches 
garbled  quotations  from  the  sacred  Scriptures  for  the 
sake  of  giving  piquancy  to  a  witless  sarcasm.  This 
is  what  might  be  expected  in  a  wrangling  bar  room 
or  a  babbling  brothel,  but  it  inflicts  the  deepest  dis 
grace  on  the  morality  and  dignity  which  the  public 
have  ever  been  in  the  habit  of  associating  with  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States.  It  merits  the  execra 
tions  of  every  man  who  has  any  reverence  for  his 
God,  or  any  love  for  his  country.  Justice  to  the 
other  members  would  seem  to  require  us  to  single  out 
those  gross  offenders  against  moral  decency ;  but  the 
seal  of  opprobrium  can  be  set  without  this  personality 
from  us — the  guilty  are  already  known,  and  will,  we 
trust,  suffer  that  chastisement  which  the  moral  sense 
of  this  nation  has  never  yet  failed  to  visit  on  the  im 
pious  and  profane.  The  higher  the  object  the  hot  toi 
ls  the  lightning  tluit  blasts  it. 


POLITICO-liELIGlOUS    ACTION.  243 


POLITICO-RELIGIOUS    ACTION. 

WE  stated  the  other  day  that  the  political  move 
ment  of  Bishop  Hughes  and  his  confederates  would 
not  stop  with  their  defeat  at  the  election.  The  subse 
quent  resolutions  of  that  bod}7  show  that  our  appre 
hensions  were  well  founded.  They  have  resolved  to 
prosecute  their  object  and  never  relinquish  it  till  their 
perseverance  shall  be  crowned  with  success.  They 
will  prove  fearfully  true  to  their  purpose.  They  hold 
the  balance  of  power  between  the  two  great  political 
parties  which  divide  the  State,  and  they  will  exert  it 
for  the  attainment  of  this  object. 

Having  succeeded  in  New  York,  a  similar  move 
ment  will  be  made  here.  The  same  motives  and  ob 
jects  exist  in  the  two  places,  and  must  be  achieved 
by  the  same  means.  This  political  ball  once  in  mo 
tion,  and  impelled  by  the  hands  of  crafty  prelates, 
encouraged  by  assurances  from  Rome,  will  continue 
to  roll  on.  The  discreet  Roman  Catholic  may  with 
hold  his  hands,  and  disclaim  participation,  but  For 
eign  priests,  and  they  over  whom  their  authority  ex 
tends,  will  ply  the  work. 

The  prelates  of  the  Papal  See  have  always  inter 
fered  with  the  political  institutions  of  Protestant 
countries.  With  us  they  are  not  native-born  citizens 
— they  spring  not  from  the  great  mass.  They  are 
strangers  in  our  midst,  and  with  all  the  unfortunate 
prejudices  which  attach  to  a  foreign  birth.  They 
have  not,  and  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that 


244  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

they  should  have,  a  sympathy  with  our  republican 
institutions.  They  cannot  respond  to  the  jealousy 
with  which  we  guard  every  encroachment  of  eccle 
siastical  power  upon  civil  rights.  They  have  been 
accustomed  from  their  cradles  to  contemplate  Reli 
gion  in  connection  with  the  provisions  of  State.  They 
cannot  appreciate  its  pure,  separate  existence :  it  is 
with  them  a  moral  anomaly. 

The  Papal  See,  that  great  archetype  of  opinion,  is 
itself  a  combination  of  temporal  and  spiritual  power. 
From  this  seat  of  supreme  authority  they  are  sent 
forth.  There  they  receive  their  commissions ;  there 
lies  their  allegiance;  there  rest  their  responsibility 
and  hope  of  preferment.  The  ecclesiastics  of  all 
other  persuasions  act  under  an  authority  which  be 
longs  to  this  country,  and  can  be  checked,  censured, 
or  deposed,  without  the  intervention  of  a  foreign  tri 
bunal.  But  from  such  liabilities  a  representative  of 
the  Roman  See  is  exempt. 

Still,  so  long  as  this  fearful  power  is  used  for  wise 
and  good  purposes,  for  objects  compatible  with  free 
dom  of  conscience,  and  the  genius  of  our  institutions, 
we  shall  not  complain  ;  with  the  discharge  of  appro 
priate  offices,  parochial  duties  and  obligations  sug 
gested  by  charity,  we  shall  not  interfere.  It  is  against 
the  political  movements  of  these  foreign  prelates,  and 
their  unjust  interference  with  our  civil  institutions, 
that  we  offer  resistance.  For  this  they  denounce  us 
— for  this  they  introduce  us  with  obloquy  into  tlu-ir 


THE   BANKRUPT    LAW.  245 

public  discourses — concert  against  us  in  their  private 
conclaves,  and  even  interfere  with,  the  better  judg 
ments  of  those  who  find  it  for  their  advantage  to  ex 
tend  their  favors  to  our  journal.  But  we  shall  not 
retaliate  ;  we  shall  not  return  evil  for  evil ;  but  we 
shall  do  our  duty,  temperately  and  firmly — unawed 
by  menace,  and  uninfluenced  by  any  sectarian  spirit. 
We  owe  this  to  the  community  and  the  social  and 
civil  interests  of  our  common  country. 

THE    BANKRUPT    LAW. 

THE  elements  of  this  law  are  good,  and  the  spirit 
which  pervades  its  provisions  is  honorable  to  human 
nature.  The  difficulty  lies  in  realizing  its  advantages 
and  escaping  its  evils — in  securing  the  benefit  and 
avoiding  the  abuse. 

No  good  man  will  consent  to  be  released  from  his 
liabilities,  if  his  release  is  to  be  made  a  source  of 
mischief  and  calamity  to  the  community.  He  will 
not  wish  to  have  a  door  unbarred  to  him,  if  through 
that  door  swindlers  are  to  rush.  He  will  not  accept 
emancipation  on  such  terms  ;  he  will  not  walk  forth 
to  liberty  in  such  company.  He  will  consider  a  law 
so  latitudinarian  as  this,  as  a  libel  on  his  own  integ 
rity.  JSTo ;  he  will  plant  himself  on  his  own  unshaken 
honesty,  and,  though  surrounded  by  the  sad  results 
of  adversity,  ask  for  nothing,  and  desire  nothing  in 
compatible  with  the  public  good.  Such  a  man  finds 
his  protection  in  his  uprightness  and  in  the  moral 


246  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

sense  of  the  community.  The  creditor  who  should 
attempt  to  invade  his  condition,  to  chain  the  energies 
and  crush  the  hopes  that  still  remain  to  him,  would 
be  overpowered  by  public  censure  and  rebuke.  He 
would  be  withheld  from  the  execution  of  his  wicked 
purpose  by  influences  stronger  than  law — by  a  moral 
power  superior  to  legal  enactments. 

That  a  bankrupt  law  may  be  shaped  so  as  to  secure 
the  just  benefits  of  the  present  one,  and  escape  the 
evils  to  which  it  is  obnoxious,  we  cannot  doubt. 
Patient  application  and  an  honest  purpose  can  effect 
these  objects.  The  present  law  was  hurried  through 
the  forms  of  legislation  with  an  impetuosity  that  left 
much  more  scope  for  the  relieving  pictures  of  the 
imagination  than  the  careful  decisions  of  a  sober 
judgment.  The  nation  was  captured  with  the  hu 
manity  of  its  spirit,  but  forgot,  in  this  gush  of  sym 
pathy,  to  guard  sufficiently  its  provisions.  In  their 
zeal  to  relieve  the  debtor,  they  lost  sight  of  the  claims 
and  condition  of  the  creditor.  Legislation  conse 
quently  looked  all  one  way. 

What  should  now  be  done  is  to  suspend  its  going 
into  effect  till  sober  judgment  and  fidelity  to  its  prin 
ciples  can  revise  its  provisions  and  rectify  their  im 
perfections.  This  should  be  done  without  delay ;  it 
should  be  done  in  good  faith.  It  is  the  firm  convic 
tion  of  many  o£  the  first  men  in  the  country — men 
practically  and  thoroughly  informed  on  this  "whole 
subject — that  if  the  bankrupt  law,  in  its  present 


REVOLUTIONS   IN   EUKOPE.  247 

shape,  should  go  into  operation,  it  will  make  ten  bank 
rupts  where  it  will  relieve  one.  Over  such  a  mass 
of  prospective  disaster,  misfortune  itself  should  pause. 

REVOLUTIONS    IN    EUROPE. 

THE  thrilling  influences  of  the  French  Revolution 
are  pervading  the  continent  of  Europe.  The  Nether 
lands  are  in  arms,  and  the  bloody  conflicts  of  Paris 
have  been  acted  over  in  Brussels.  Austria  is  filled 
with  alarm,  and  Italy  is  deluged  with  an  armed  force 
to  keep  her  in  subjection.  Spain  reels  to  her  founda 
tions,  and  the  throne  of  Portugal  totters  to  fall.  The 
dynasties  of  Germany  are  convulsed,  and  even  the 
autocrat  of  all  the  Russias  feels  insecure.  The  powers 
of  Prussia  would  fain  shut  out  the  light  and  freedom 
that  beams  from  France,  and  rivet  in  darkness  and 
degradation  that  despotism  that  has  become  too 
odious  for  the  intelligence  that  surrounds  it. 

These  popular  movements  that  are  disturbing  the 
whole  of  continental  Europe,  have  something  in  them 
more  stable  and  portentous  than  belongs  to  the 
ebullitions  of  momentary  passions,  or  the  blind  rush 
of  a  reckless  rabble.  The  first  demonstrations  of 
disaffection  and  resistance  may,  perhaps,  be  found 
among  the  more  rash  and  unreflecting  part  of  the 
populace,  but  this  is  only  the  foam  that  floats  on  the 
ocean  that  is  rocking  to  its  lowest  o!,epths.  The  age 
of  uninquiring  submission  is  past ;  new  light  has  over 
spread  the  nations,  and  sentiments  of  self-respect,  in- 


248  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

dependence,  and  personal  responsibility,  have  taken 
possession  of  the  human  breast.  Little  is  now  ap 
parent  but  tumult,  disorganization,  and  falling  frag 
ments  of  antiquated  systems  ;  but  out  of  these  wrecks 
a  new  order  of  things  will  be  brought  forth,  suited  to 
the  present  age  and  the  condition  of  man. 

The  last  twenty  years  has  been  a  period  of  inquiry 
and  penetrating  scrutiny  into  the  insolent  claims  of 
despotic  power ;  and  what  we  now  see  is  the  result 
of  this  bold  inquiring  spirit :  it  is  not  a  momentary 
excitement,  accompanied  by  no  intelligence,  and  di 
rected  to  no  definite  object.  Those  who  regard  these 
popular  movements  as  the  mere  transient  symptoms 
of  a  blind  phrensy,  will  find  themselves  deceived. 
They  have  within  them  a  voice  to  which  kings  and 
their  privileged  nobility  will  do  well  to  turn  a  listen 
ing  ear.  They  may,  perhaps,  by  a  timely  compliance 
with  the  claims  of  oppressed  and  indignant  humanity, 
escape  the  disastrous  doom  that  otherwise  inevitably 
awaits  them.  This  age  is  to  stamp  the  character  of 
centuries  yet  to  come.  The  moral  and  political  con 
dition  of  the  millions  that  shall  move  over  our  dust, 
is  now  trembling  in  the  scales.  God  grant  that  this 
generation  may  be  true  to  its  high  and  fearful  re 
sponsibilities. 

REMOVALS    FROM    OFFICE. 

• 

THE  whole  administration  press  is  now  uttering  its 
remonstrances  against  removals  from  office.  Softly, 

i 


REMOVALS    FROM    OFFICE.  249 

gentlemen,  softly.  The  doctrine  of  removal  is  one  of 
your  own  concocting ;  it  is  a  cup  of  your  own  min 
gling  :  and  a  bitter  cup  it  is,  too ;  it  is  wormwood 
and  gall,  hemlock  and  henbane  to  the  brim.  You 
made  the  poor  whigs  swallow  it,  and  you  stood  by 
unmoved  by  the  agonies  which  the  poison  occasioned. 
It  sickened  the  whole  land  ;  it  threw  the  whole  nation 
into  convulsions ;  the  great  whig  party  was  like  a 
Prometheus  overpowered  and  chained  to  the  Cau 
casian  rock,  with  the  vultures  at  his  heart.  But  that 
stern  Titan  had  sympathy ;  the  daughters  of  old  Ocean 
bent  over  him  and  softened  his  tortures  with  their 
tears.  But  no  such  compassion  mingled  in  the  suf 
ferings  of  the  poor  whigs ;  there  was  none  to  pity, 
none  to  deliver. 

But  now  the  tide  of  fortune  has  turned ;  the  victim 
has  become  the  victor,  and  "even-handed  justice 
presents  this  poisoned  chalice  to  your  lips."  Alas, 
for  you !  Alack  the  day  you  compounded  that  cup  ! 
You  should  not  have  gathered  those  herbs ;  you 
should  not  have  extracted  their  poison ;  you  should 
not  have  mixed  that  bowl  of  convulsive  and  penal 
torture.  You  could  then  protest;  you  could  then 
appeal  to  justice  and  humanity;  but  now  your  re 
monstrance  is  without  power ;  it  gasps  and  dies  in 
conscious  guilt.  Still  we  hope  you  will  not  be  called 
upon  to  drain  that  cup.  ..We  know  its  bitterness  so 
well,  we  would  save  your  being  required  even  to  taste 
it,  were  it  in  our  power.  Forgiveness  is  a  virtue,  re- 

n* 

• 


1*50  SELECTED    EDITOKI A I  s. 

venge  a  crime.  The  "  poisoned  chalice"  some  men 
administer  to  others  without  compunction.  Its  bitter 
ness  they  never  fully  understand,  until  it  is  returned 
to  "  their  own  lips." 

THE    SLAVE-TRADE,    AND    RIGHT    OF    SEARCH. 

AN  armed  expedition  from  the  U.  S.  ship  Yin- 
cennes,  cruising  in  the  West  Indies,  was  sent  out  on 
the  28th  of  March,  1843,  to  explore  a  part  of  the  south 
side  of  Cuba.  "  In  the  Guava  river,"  this  expedition, 
as  the  authentic  narrative  states,  "fell  in  with  a 
Spanish  slaver,  which  submitted  to  an  examination  of 
her  papers,  which  were  all  found  correct.  She  did 
not  attempt  to  resist,  nor  was  a  gun  fired.  She  was 
well  armed,  with  a  crew  of  forty-three  men,  and  had 
left  Africa  with  five  hundred  and  fifty  slaves,  of 
whom  thirty-four  had  died,  and  two  jumped  over 
board  in  delirium :  had  been  at  sea  twenty-eight 
days.  This  slaver  was  permitted  to  pass,  which  was 
regretted  by  all." 

And  why  was  she  permitted  to  pass  ?  "Why  was 
she  not  captured,  the  public  indignantly  exclaim ! 
Why?  because  our  government  have  taken  up  a 
position  on  this  subject  which  forbids  capture ;  and 
visitation  too,  even  in  going  on  board  of  that  slaver, 
ascertaining  her  character  and  accursed  occupation. 
We  violated  our  non-visitation  principle !  a  principle 
that  splits  diplomatic  hairs,  and  allows  a  continent  t<> 
be  rifled  of  its  helpless  children !  which  shapes  a 


THE   SLAVE-TRADE,  AND   EIGHT   OF   SEAKCH.       251 

definition,  and  covers  our  coast  with  the  miseries 
and  horrors  of  the  slave-trade  ! 

Never  was  a  Christian  nation  before  placed  in  such 
an  attitude  of  humiliation  and  reproach.  "We  were 
the  first  nation  to  declare  the  slave-trade  piracy.  "We 
invoked  England  and  other  Christian  powers  to  join 
us  in  measures  for  the  condign  punishment  of  those 
engaged  in  it,  and  the  final  extirpation  of  the  in 
human  traffic  itself.  "When  these  powers  at  last 
thoroughly  moved  in  the  matter,  and  on  the  force  of 
impulses  which  we  first  gave,  we  at  once  backed  out, 
and  we  have  now  taken  up  a  position  which  turns  all 
our  previous  measures,  our  holy  horror  and  penal 
enactments,  into  a  burlesque.  "We  have  made  our 
selves  perfectly  powerless  so  far  as  the  slave-ships  of 
all  other  nations  are  concerned.  The  ocean  may 
swarm  with  them,  and  we  cannot  capture  one  unless 
she  has  American  papers,  nor  can  we  even  go  on 
board  to  ascertain  that  fact.  The  .slaver  has  only  to 
run  up  the  flag  of  any  other  nation,  and  her  immunity 
is  complete ;  she  may  laugh  at  our  armed  force,  and 
send  up  her  jeers  amid  the  whole  squadron  which  we 
are  about  sending  to  the  coast  of  Africa.  Such  is  the 
condition  to  which  we  have  been  reduced  by  our 
foolish  jealousy  and  hair-splitting  diplomacy. 

Were  we  to  stop  here,  we  might,  perhaps,  have 
the  virtue  of  consistency,  in  our  humiliation  and 
shame ;  but,  as  if  to  relieve  our  condition,  we  are 
about  sending  out  to  Africa  an  armed  squadron, 


252  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

which  our  non-visitation  principle,  if  carried  out,  will 
render  as  idle  as  if  sent  to  the  moon.  We  cannot 
stir  there,  tack  or  sheet,  without  violating  the  very 
restrictions  which  we  have  imposed  on  other  powers. 
We  cannot  capture  even  an  American  slaver  that  has 
the  wit  to  run  up  foreign  colors ;  we  cannot  allow  an 
officer  or  sailor  to  profane  her  deck  with  his  intrusive 
footstep.  Had  we  set  our  ingenuity  to  work  to  in 
vent  some  plan  by  which  to  protect,  in  the  most 
effectual  way,  the  slave-trade,  we  could  not  have  been 
more  successful  than  we  have  in  our  non-visitation 
principle.  It  is  a  perfect  shield  to  the  slave-ships  of 
all  other  nations,  and  our  own  too. 

We  trust  this  nation  will  not  long  submit  quietly 
to  this  attitude  of  helplessness  and  reproach.  Wo 
owe  it  to  ourselves,  to  the  moral  principles  of  the  age, 
to  the  claims  of  humanity,  and  the  requirements  of 
infinite  justice,  to  throw  at  once  this  diplomatic  quib 
bling  to  the  winds.  We  should  say,  frankly  and 
fearlessly,  to  all  the  powers  of  Christendom,  capture 
and  sink  the  slaver  wherever  found,  and  under  what 
ever  colors  she  floats.  Should  abuse  in  any  instance 
follow,  demand  and  enforce  redress :  any  thing  but 
this  skulking  behind  a  diplomatic  quibble,  and  seek 
ing  to  protect  the  honor  of  a  national  flag  by  a  defini 
tion.  It  is  more  disreputable  than  even  the  torpedo 
system  of  the  last  war. 

Instead  of  standing  aloof,  declaiming  about  the 
right  of  search,  allowing  our  commerce  to  be  im- 


THE  SLAVE-TRADE,  AND  RIGHT  OF  SEARCH.   253 

peded,  and  our  flag  used  as  a  protection  for  pirates, 
it  would  better  become  us  to  unite  in  the  humane 
purpose  of  other  nations,  and  depend  a  little  more 
on  our  own  courage  and  activity,  to  prevent  any 
abuse  attendant  on  a  mutual  concession  of  the  right 
of  search. 

We  have  declared  the  slave-trade  piracy,  and  it  ill 
becomes  us  now  to  say  that  no  nation  shall  interfere 
with  the  wretch  who  attempts  to  carry  on  this  ac 
cursed  traffic,  under  an  abused  use  of  our  flag.  It 
would  be  much  better,  and  much  more  honorable  in 
us  to  say  to  other  nations,  you  may  pursue  the  slave- 
ship  under  whatever  flag  she  floats,  but  you  must  not 
abuse  this  privilege,  you  must  not  interfere  with  our 
legitimate  commerce ;  and  then  to  place  at  the  dis 
posal  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  a  force  sufficient 
to  protect  our  interests  and  honor  on  the  African 
coast.  But  to  do  neither  of  these,  only  evinces  in 
difference  to  character,  and  insensibility  to  crime. 

Oh,  Africa !  in  blood  at  every  pore ! 

Thy  nameless  sufferings  are  a  world's  disgrace ! 
Nations  have  battened  on  thy  brood ;  each  shore 

Has  been  the  grave  of  thy  ill-fated  race ! — 
Worse  than  the  grave,  for  thou  hast  lived,  and  bore 

Thy  wrongs,  while  death  had  been  a  resting-place. 
What  voice  shall  now  thy  captive  sons  reclaim ! 
What  arm  secure  thy  children  that  remain ! 


254  SELECTED    KDITOKI A I .- . 

DOMESTIC    SLAVE-TRADERS. 

IF  there  is  a  class  of  men  that  ought  to  be  regarded 
with  universal  and  unmingled  detestation,  it  is  the 
miserable  beings  that  are  often  lurking  in  this  city 
and  district,  in  the  character  of  slave-traders.  They 
are  prying  into  each  cabin  and  kitchen,  searching  out 
the  circumstances  of  each  person  of  color ;  and  where 
they  think  a  speculation  can  be  made,  endeavoring 
to  effect  a  purchase.  But  they  do  not  confine  their 
impertinent  inquiries  and  merciless  bargains  to  the 
district ;  they  perambulate  the  country,  tempt  the 
planter  who  has  become  embarrassed  in  his  finances, 
and  at  length  succeed  in  making  the  requisite  pur 
chases  :  a  vessel  is  chartered,  and  several  hundred  of 
these  unfortunate  beings  are  shipped  on  board  for  the 
New  Orleans  market. 

The  anguish  and  despair  that  are  thus  occasioned 
by  breaking  up  the  strongest  ties  of  nature,  by  drag 
ging  away  children  from  their  parents,  brothers  from 
their  sisters,  and  the  mother  from  her  infant  child, 
may,  perhaps,  be  conceived,  but  never  described.  It 
is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  a  young  female  slave, 
ascertaining  that  she  has  been  purchased  by  one  of 
these  merciless  traders  for  the  Southern  market,  fly 
ing  from  house  to  house,  endeavoring  to  sell  herself 
for  a  higher  price  than  that  for  which  she  has  been 
bartered  away,  so  that  she  may  be  able  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  her  repacious  purchaser,  and  live  and  die 
among  her  relations. 


DOMESTIC    SLAVE-TRADERS.  255 

Were  such  things  transacted  on  some  barbarous 
coast,  where  the  humanizing  influences  of  civilization 
and  Christianity  were  unknown,  our  amazement 
might  be  less  ;  but  when  we  see  them  openly  coun 
tenanced  in  a  land  that  boasts  of  the  freedom  of  its 
institutions,  and  the  mildness  and  equity  of  its  laws, 
we  are  ready  to  regard  benevolence,  virtue,  and  reli 
gion  as  a  mockery. 

Reason,  justice,  and  humanity  demand  of  our  na 
tional  Legislature  the  immediate  enactment  of  a  law 
prohibiting,  under  severe  pains  and  penalties,  this 
wholesale  traffic  in  human  flesh.  The  man  who 
finds  himself  in  the  possession  of  slaves,  entailed 
upon  him  perhaps  with  his  patrimonial  inheritance, 
and  wrho  treats  them  kindly,  is  entitled  to  our  most 
charitable  considerations  ;  but  the  heartless  being 
who  goes  about  buying  up  his  fellow-creatures,  as  a 
mere  matter  of  cold-blooded  speculation,  instigated 
only  by  the  most  sordid  and  reckless  avarice,  merits 
our  unmingled  scorn  and  abhorrence. 

His  occupation  is  a  piracy  on  human  life  and  hap 
piness  :  he  thrives  on  the  tears  and  agonies  of  his  fel 
low-beings  ;  and  the  dungeon,  with  its  chains,  or  the 
scaffold  with  its  ignominy,  ought  to  be  his  immediate 
allotment. 

And  yet  these  inhuman  monsters  are  allowed  to 
shelter  themselves  under  the  very  eye  of  our  Capitol, 
and  to  prosecute  their  fiendish  schemes  with  as  much 
impunity  as  if  life  and  liberty  were  meant  only  for 


256  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

their  sport.  The  deluded  being  who  lifts  his  hand 
against  the  transportation  of  a  few  idle  letters  and 
worthless  pamphlets,  we  consign  to  an  unwept  grave ; 
but  the  wretch  that 'like  a  vampyre,  battens  on  the 
life-blood  of  the  community,  is  allowed  to  pass  un 
molested. 

UNITED    STATES    BANK. 

WHY  should  some  be  so  sensitive  on  the  subject  of 
this  institution?  Why  regard  every  inquiry  with 
distrust  and  aversion  ?  Why  construe  every  sugges 
tion  into  an  evidence  of  hostility  ?  It  is  one  thing  to 
stand  before  an  institution  as  its  unqualified  enemy  ; 
it  is  another  thing  to  stand  before  it  as  an  unques 
tioning  worshipper  ;  it  is  another  thing  still,  to  stand 
before  it  as  one  ready  to  correct  the  wrong,  to 
strengthen  and  uphold  the  right. 

Convince  the  public  that  an  institution  is  privileged 
against  inquiry ;  that  it  is  exempt  from  investigation ; 
that  its  errors  are  to  be  kept  a  secret,  or  spoken  of 
only  in  whispers,  and  you  destroy  at  once  the  confi 
dence  of  the  community  in  that  institution.  It  is  the 
full  persuasion  that  its  errors  will  be  known — that  its 
faults  will  be  corrected,  its  evils  rectified — that  sus 
tains  it  in  the  calm  judgment  of  mankind.  Nor  is 
this  vigilance  and  honesty  to  be  the  less  active  and 
faithful  with  its  friends,  because  the  institution  may 
have  its  foes.  They  are  not  to  be  excused  from  cor 
recting  real  faults  because  others  may  be  attacking 


UNITED    STATES    BANK.  257 

imaginary  ones.  It  is  our  weak  points  that  we  should 
fortify;  our  stronger  ones  will  take  care  of  them 
selves. 

When  General  Jackson  waged  his  blind,  extermi 
nating  war  against  this  bank,  heading  his  forces  in 
person,  closely  investing  it  with  the  bristling  strength 
of  his  beleaguering  lines,  erecting  his  engines,  and 
heaving  against  wall  and  bastion  the  full  force  of  his 
enormous  battering-ram,  prudence  and  good  policy 
required  the  besieged  to  stand  strictly  on  the  defen 
sive  ;  to  husband  their  resources ;  to  strengthen  every 
weak  point ;  to  watch  every  movement  of  the  enemy, 
and  to  meet  every  charge  with  firmness  and  compo 
sure.  But  instead  of  this  we  had  a  series  of  sorties, 
all  gallantly  led,  it  is  true,  and  making  a  brilliant 
display,  but  leaving  no  permanent  impression  on  the 
beleaguering  foe ;  while  that  old  battering-ram,  un 
diverted  by  these  transient  sallies,  was  shaking  bas 
tion  and  buttress  with  the  thunders  of  its  impetuous 
strength.  The  voice  of  the  old  hero  in  the  mean 
time  was  heard  at  every  point  rebuking  the  inactive, 
cheering  on  the  resolute,  and  shouting  for  glory  or 
the  grave. 

But  the  besieged  committed  a  worse  folly  than  that 
of  their  sorties  :  they  sent  out  scouts  and  recruiting 
parties  in  all  quarters — not  to  bring  up  forces,  to  man 
the  walls,  and  strengthen  the  besieged  citadel,  but 
for  an  outside  battle.  So  numerous  were  those  sent 
out  in  this  recruiting  capacity,  and  such  the  sums 


2  "8  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

spent  to  procure  their  aid,  that  the  citadel  itself  was 
fearfully  weakened  and  impoverished.  The  mer 
cenary  troops  in  the  mean  time  were  tardy  in  coining 
to  the  relief  of  the  besieged,  and,  when  they  did  ar 
rive,  they  were  without  an  experienced  commander, 
without  discipline,  or  any  concerted  plan  of  action. 
The  consequence  was,  they  made  a  poor  fight  of  it. 
Some  were  dismayed,  some  proved  treacherous,  some 
fled,  and  a  few  fought  like  men.  But  the  old  hero 
was  too  strong  for  them  ;  too  strong  in  numbers,  and 
too  strong  in  that  phrensied  resolution  which  forgets 
all  things  else  in  the  achievement  of  its  object. 

The  fortress,  weakened  by  its  sorties,  and  disap 
pointed  in  the  conduct  of  its  mercenaries,  was  at  last 
obliged  to  capitulate ;  or  rather,  it  threw  out  a  new 
banner  upon  the  breeze — one  in  which  the  glorious 
star  of  Pennsylvania  shone  bright  and  alone.  The 
besieging  general,  amazed  at  the  new  insignia,  and 
well  knowing  that  it  was  not  against  such  a  banner 
that  he  had  declared  war,  seemed  at  first  in  doubt  how 
to  act.  But,  suspecting  some  artifice,  he  only  par 
tially  suspended  hostilities ;  but  it  was  enough  to 
give  the  besieged  time  for  breath,  for  consultation, 
and  for  arranging  a  new  plan  of  action. 

And  what  was  this  new  plan  of  action  at  length 
adopted  ?  It  was  to  make  a  new  demonstration  under 
this  new  banner.  It  was  to  secure  champions  and 
friends  for  it  in  the  North  and  the  South,  in  the  East 
and  the  West ;  to  have  it  welcomed  from  a  thousand 


UNITED    STATES    BANK.  259 

hills  and  plains.  Under  this  new  enthusiasm,  past 
misfortunes  were  to  be  retrieved,  lost  laurels  won, 
and  the  tide  of  victory  rolled  back  on  the  foe.  But 
all  these  new  alliances,  these  new  friendships,  kept 
drawing  heavily  on  its  resources.  Every  community 
that  sent  in  its  allegiance  expected  its  reward.  They 
required,  in  some  shape,  an  adequate  return  for  their 
fealty. 

Few  communities  expected  this,  and  none  certainly 
claimed  it,  in  the  form  of  a  direct  largess.  But  they 
sought  it  on  the  face  of  securities  which  had  no  sound 
claims  to  the  confidence  which  they  required.  In 
this  way  the  energies  of  the  institution,  instead  of 
being  concentrated  or  posted  where  they  could  be 
called  into  immediate  action,  upon  any  emergency  ? 
were  dispersed  far  and  wide,  and  so  mixed  up  with 
other  interests  which  had  none  of  its  solidity  or  recu 
perative  force,  that  their  efficiency  and  ability  to  ren 
der  prompt  relief  was  utterly  lost.  The  consequence 
was  disaster,  and  almost  ruin,  when  the  day  of  trial 
came. 

When  we  consider  the  substantial  service  which 
this  institution  had  rendered  the  country,  the  benefits 
it  had  conferred  at  home  and  abroad,  the  good  char 
acter  it  had  sustained  for  uprightness,  and  when  we 
consider,  too,  the  blind  malignity  with  which  it  was 
assailed,  the  fury  and  force  of  the  war  waged  against 
it  by  General  Jackson,  we  are  almost  ready  to  excuse 
any  errors  it  may  have  committed  flowing  from  meas- 


260  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

ures  of  defence,  however  fatal  they  may  have  proved. 
But  it  is  worse  than  idle  to  say  that  no  such  errors 
have  been  committed,  or  that  none  have  occurred 
which  financial  ability  and  moral  firmness  could  have 
avoided. 

Let  the  errors  of  the  past  be  our  monitors  for  the 
future,  and  let  it  be  our  business  to  correct  faults 
rather  than  excuse  them,  to  rectify  evils  rather  than 
seek  their  concealment. 

RESUMPTION   DAY. 

IT  would  puzzle  the  pencil  of  Hogarth  to  sketch 
the  motley  scene  presented  at  the  counter  of  the 
United  States  Bank,  in  Chestnut-street,  on  the  day 
of  its  resuming  payment.  First  you  would  see  some 
active,  sharp-sighted  broker,  very  polite,  and  asking 
for  only  some  fifty  thousand ;  then  would  follow  a 
distrustful  depositor,  half  doubting  whether  it  was 
best  after  all  to  burden  himself  with  the  specie,  and 
when  he  had  got  it,  looking  for  all  the  world  as  if  he 
knew  not  where  to  go,  or  what  to  do  with  it,  and 
quite  ready  to  accuse  his  stars  for  his  folly.  Not 
so  with  the  next  one ;  he  is  a  gaunt,  tall  figure,  with 
a  face  so  thin  that  only  one  person  can  look  at  it 
at  a  time,  pinching  a  few  bills  in  his  long,  bony  fin 
gers,  and  quite  determined  to  hold  on  to  it  with  one 
hand,  for  fear  of  some  cheat,  till  the  specie  shall  rattle* 
in  the  other. 

Then  comes  a  Hostess  Quickly,  with  her  full,  iv<l 


RESUMPTION   DAY.  261 


face,  and  go-ahead  manner,  shaking  her  bills,  and 
determined  to  take  ample  revenge  for  all  the  shin- 
plasters  and  counterfeit  notes  which  her  roguish  cus 
tomers  have  palmed  off  on  her.  Then  comes  up  a 
sailor,  taken  all  aback  when  he  sees  the  piles  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  looking  as  if  ready  to  knock  down 
the  man  who  had  told  him  the  bank  was  not  safe  and 
sound.  Then  strides  up  a  huge  Irishman,  bringing 
his  own  bill,  and  those  of  some  dozen  others.  But 
what  shall  he  do  with  the  dollars  f  he  finds  a  hole, 
or  suspects  there  is  one,  in  each  of  his  pockets.  So 
he  oifs  hat  and  has  them  thrown  into  that,  when  out 
drops  the  crown,  and  the  dollars  roll  around  the  floor, 
to  the  merriment  of  all  save  the  son  of  Erin.  Then 
approaches  a  spare  laundress,  with  her  ten-dollar  bill, 
asks  for  gold,  takes  the  eagle  and  deposits  it  safe  in 
her  snuif-box  before  she  has  stirred  an  inch  from  the 
counter. 

Then  comes  the  Ethiopian,  with  his  white  ivory 
flashing  through  the  curl  of  his  dark  lips ;  he  has 
somehow  got  a  ten-dollar  bill,  wants  it  all  in  fifty- 
cent  pieces,  shoves  the  shiners  into  his  pockets,  ejacu 
lating  as  he  turns  away,  "  I  guess  we'll  empty  their 
big  box  for  them  to-day."  Then  strides  up  a  locofoco 
with  his  elbows  out,  and  his  nose  red  enough  to  illu 
minate  his  footsteps  in  the  darkest  night,  "  Here, 
Mister,  is  a  shinplaster  of  yours ;  if  it's  good  for  any 
thing,  give  us  the  hard  stuff."  Then  comes  wheezing 
along  a  countryman,  with  a  bag  on  his  back  filled 


262  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

with  specie,  rolls  it  from  his  shoulder  upon  the  coun 
ter,  and  requests  its  amount  in  bank  bills.  Had  a 
man  sprung  out  of  his  grave,  the  astonishment  of  the 
motley  group  could  not  have  been  greater.  The  wo 
men  dropped  their  specie,  the  locofoco  stood  speech 
less,  the  pickpocket  forgot  he  had  fingers,  and  Hostess 
Quickly  was  pale  and  still  as  Lot's  wife  in  monu 
mental  salt. 

MAY    DAY    IN    THE    COUNTRY. 

SPRING-TIME  is  a  season  full  of  hope  and  promise. 
It  is  symbolical  of  youth,  and  its  opening  is  worthy  to 
be  kept  with  innocent  pastimes,  and  as  a  joyous  holi 
day.  The  beautiful  customs  of  the  rural  population 
of  England  have  never  yet  been  introduced  among 
their  descendants  in  this  country.  "  May  Day"  is 
hardly  known  with  us,  except  as  a  season  of  common, 
social  congratulation.  In  England  it  is  kept  as  a 
festival  full  of  delightful  interest,  its  associations  being 
of  the  most  joyous  and  fascinating  character.  The 
season  there  is  one  of  rich  horticultural  beauty,  the 
meadows  throwing  off  the  delicious  fragrance  of  their 
wild-flowers,  while  the  hill-sides  blossom  with  the 
woodbine  and  honeysuckle.  In  many  of  the  villages 
the  custom  of  celebrating  May  Day  is  kept  alive. 
It  beautifully  tends  to  infuse  poetical  feeling  into 
common  life,  while  it  sweetens  and  softens  the  rink- 
ness  of  rustic  manners  without  destroying  their  sim 
plicity. 


MAY    DAY   IN   THE   COUNTRY.  2G3 

In  England,  the  "  May-pole"  is  erected  in  some 
choice  arid  beautiful  spot.  It  is  decked  with  jessa 
mines,  and  garlands  of  flowers,  and  honeysuckles 
hung  in  beautiful  clusters  from  its  summit.  The 
youth  of  both  sexes  join  in  the  rural  dance  and 
song,  and  pastimes  of  the  most  guileless  nature  are 
enjoyed  by  the  unsophisticated  population  of  the 
rural  districts.  The  "  Queen"  selected  to  preside, 
becomes  the  object  of  distinguished  admiration,  often 
bringing  the  most  ambitious  swain  at  her  rustic  feet. 
The  influence  of  this  beautiful  season  has  been  most 
salutary  in  England,  but  it  declines  with  the  chilling 
habits  of  gain,  and  as  the  country  mawkishly  apes 
the  customs  and  fashions  of  the  town. 

With  us  but  few  rural  customs  are  known,  and 
none  are  extensively  observed  among  the  rustic  popu 
lation.  Yet  the  season  of  spring-time  comes  alike  to 
all  with'  welcome  loveliness.  The  dreary  winter  has 
passed,  and  nature,  throwing  off  the  cheerless  em 
brace  of  cold  and  tempest,  gladly  opens  her  bosom 
to  the  warm  dalliance  of  soft  winds  and  yellow  sun 
shine.  Man  and  beast  alike  feel  the  reviving  influ 
ence  of  the  genial  warmth  which  this  season  of  youth 
ful  beauty  diffuses.  Vegetation  revives,  and  the 
world  teems  with  resuscitated  vegetable,  animal,  and 
insect  life. 

The  green  lawn  brightens  with  its  fresh  verdure. 
The  buds  swell  arid  open,  and  the  foliage  thickens 
upon  the  leafless  forest-trees.  Birds,  those  sweet 


SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 


messengers  of  love,  and  objects  of  refined  admiration, 
carol  on  house-top  and  bush,  and  swell  their  piy 
notes  even  among  the  dust  and  clamor  of  the  great 
city.  Flowers  spring  up  by  the  narrow  walk,  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  rose  diffuses  its  rich  perfume 
at  every  opening  window.  The  honeysuckle  throws 
out  its  tendrils  and  clings  to  whatever  it  finds  to  lean 
upon,  while  the  woodbine  climbs  up  the  dizzy  wall, 
as,  if  in  reach  of  light  and  a  pure  atmosphere ;  and 
household  plants,  which  have  been  hid  from  the  rough 
wind  of  winter  and  the  cold  sunbeams,  are  now  seen 
at  the  open  lattice,  turning  their  bright  tints  and  lily 
hues  to  the  warm  sun,  and  drinking  in  the  soft  winds 
of  spring-time. 

ASSOCIATIONS    OF    CHRISTMAS. 

THE  one  hundred  and  twenty  bells  which  hang  in 
the  turrets  of  Mafra  castle,  are  now  in  joyful  chime. 
That  old  cathedral  bell  of  England,  which  at  other 
times  only  wakes  up  to  toll  the  death  of  kings,  hath 
found  a  merry  tongue.  All  the  bells  which  swing  in 
the  countless  towers  of  Christendom,  are  now  pouring 
their  music  forth  to  hail  this  happy  morn.  Palace 
and  cottage,  the  swelling  city  and  the  castled  steep, 
catch  and  return  the  glad  echoes.  The  young  yield 
themselves  to  festive  mirth,  and  the  aged  are  happy 
again  ere  they  depart  this  earth.  The  eyes  of  the 
dying  light  up ;  and  immortal  hope  cheers  even  the 
gloom  of  the  grave. 


ASSOCIATIONS   OF    CHRISTMAS.  265 

This  should  be  the  happiest  day  in  the  year.  It 
has  a  source  of  gladness  all  its  own.  This  is  not  the 
greeting  of  friends,  nor  the  gathering  of  childhood 
and  age  once  more  around  the  family  hearth.  It  is 
not  the  interchange  of  kind  wishes,  or  the  mingling 
of  glad  voices  over  the  banqueting  board.  It  is  not 
that  bright  promise  which  greets  the  glance  of  the 
father  in  the  face  of  his  boy,  nor  those  smiles  of  infant 
beauty  over  which  the  mother  hangs  in  transport; 
nor  is  it  that  sacred  tie  which  binds  a  brother's  pride 
to  a  sister's  confiding  love. 

It  is  a  love  beyond  this,  beyond  all  that  human 
heart  hath  known.  It  was  born  far  back  in  the  depth 
of  ages.  ~No  earthly  splendor  encircled  its  cradle  ; 
no  philosophy  taught  it  lessons  of  wisdom ;  no  sys 
tems  of  humanity  matured  it  into  higher  strength. 
Yet  at  its  word  sorrow  forgot  its  tears,  and  despair 
smiled — the  lame  leaped  like  the  roe,  the  deaf  listened 
to  unwonted  harmonies,  the  blind  caught  visions  of 
transcendent  beauty,  the  dumb  shouted  for  joy,  and 
the  dead  left  the  dark  prison  of  the  grave. 

But  this  love  was  unrequited ;  it  was  persecuted 
and  betrayed.  The  form  in  which  it  dwelt  was  man 
gled  on  the  cross,  and  yet  it  prayed  for  those  who 
did  the  deed.  Over  its  divinity  death  had  no  power ; 
it  rose  from  out  the  gloom  of  the  grave ;  poured  its 
light  over  the  hills  of  Palestine,  over  the  isles  of 
Greece,  and  through  the  palaces  of  imperial  Rome. 
The  divinities  of  superstition  saw  it  and  fled ;  while 

12 


260  SELECTED  EDITORIALS. 

the  dark  systems  of  philosophy,  like  shadows  at  the 
break  of  morn,  melted  away  in  its  light. 

Ages  have  passed  away,  nations  disappeared,  the 
storms  of  revolution  and  time  swept  over  the  wrecks 
of  human  greatness,  but  this  divine  light  still  streams 
on.  It  glows  this  day  over  the  city  of  David ;  it  is 
hailed  in  the  baronial  halls  of  England ;  it  gleams 
amid  the  relics  of  Rome ;  it  kindles  along  the  icy 
cliffs  of  Greenland  ;  it  melts  over  the  dark  bosom  of 
Africa  ;  it  illumines  the  isles  of  the  southern  seas ;  it 
pours  its  splendors  along  the  banks  of  the  Ganges. 

It  is  this  light  which  cheers  our  temples ;  which 
sanctifies  the  hearth  of  our  homes  ;  which  fills  this  day 
the  swelling  city,  the  quiet  hamlet,  and  the  aisles  of 
the  deep  forest  with  hymns  of  gratitude  and  devotion. 
This  is  that  light  which  came  from  heaven  ;  that  love 
whose  mission  of  mercy  flows  to  all  lands,  and  which 
will  yet  reach  the  sorrows  of  every  human  heart. 

The  voice  of  the  angels,  as  in  Bethlehem,  still  peals 
the  anthem,  PEACE  ON  EARTH  AND  GOOD-WILL  TO  MEN  ; 
and  the  cross  of  Christ  stands  now  as  it  stood  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago,  unworn  by  age,  and  throwing  its 
sacred  light  through  the  earth.  Repentant  multitudes 
through  the  past  have  turned  to  it,  and  forsaken  the 
paths  of  guilt  and  error.  Good  men  in  all  ages  have 
lifted  to  it  the  eye  of  faith,  and  talked  of  its  glories 
in  their  dying  hour.  Martyrs  at  the  stake,  the  scat- 
fold,  and  the  block,  have  looked  to  it  and  forgotten 
their  persecutors  and  their  pains !  ]STo  wonder  then 


EARLY   RELIGIOUS   INSTRUCTION.  267 

that  the  angels  watch'ed  that  hour  when  the  Saviour 
was  born — that  they  hymned,  in  seraphic  numbers, 
that  love  which  induced  the  Son  of  God  to  veil  his 
divinity  in  mortal  form,  and  which  made  him  the 
hope  and  refuge  of  a  lost  world  ! 

It  is  this  event  for  which  these  Christmas  bells  are 
in  chime.  It  is  this  event  that  has  given  such  beauty 
and  brightness  to  this  morn.  It  is  this  event  that  has 
poured  such  a  tide  of  happiness  and  love  through  the 
myriads  of  hearts  that  beat  in  Christian  lands.  May 
this  happiness,  dear  reader,  be  thine ;  may  this  love 
be  the  light  of  thy  soul ;  may  this  Saviour  be  to  thee 
the  chief  among  ten  thousand.  This  choice  and  af 
fection  his  fidelity  will  repay ;  he  will  be  thy  stay 
and  strength  when  other  supports  shall  fail ;  he  will 
sustain  thee  when  the  lamp  of  life  goes  out,  and  gra 
ciously  remember  thee  in  that  day  when  he  shall 
number  up  his  jewels. 

EARLY    RELIGIOUS    INSTRUCTION. 

IT  has  been  argued  by  one  of  the  popular  female 
writers  of  the  present  age,  that  religion  ought  not 
to  be  taught  in  early  life,  lest  the  mature  faculties 
should  be  trammelled  or  misguided  by  early  impres 
sions,  and  should  thus  fail  of  arriving  at  the  truth.  It 
seems  a  pity  that  one  so  learned  as  Miss  Edge  worth 
should  appear  not  to  have  discerned  the  distinction 
between  personal  religion  and  technical  theology  /  or, 
if  she  discerned  it,  she  perhaps  confounded  the  two 


268  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

together,  as  the  French  infidels  did  Popery  and  the 
Christian  religion,  for  the  purpose  of  effecting  the 
ruin  of  both. 

We  will  not  at  present  advocate  the  opinion  that 
all  children  and  youth  should  be  made  theologians. 
But  now,  and  ever,  we  shall  neither  be  afraid  nor 
ashamed  to  maintain  that  the  conscience  of  all,  that 
spiritual  censorium  of  whatever  is  salutary  or  perni 
cious,  that  secret  but  heavenly  monitor,  should  be 
rendered  and  kept  as  susceptible,  active,  and  efficient 
as  possible ;  and  that  rejigious  motives  should  be 
brought  to  act  with  all  their  power  on  youthful  minds, 
to  deter  them  from  dangers  which  are  fatal  to  so 
many,  and  to  urge  them  onward  to  excellent  attain 
ments. 

It  seems  almost  idle,  on  this  subject,  to  appeal  to 
Scripture,  if  it  has  ever  been  read.  Its  decision  ap 
pears  to  us  full,  clear,  and  unequivocal.  If  its  nu 
merous  injunctions  to  teach  its  truths  to  the  young, 
and  to  bring  them  up  in  the  nurture  and  admonition 
of  the  Lord,  mean  what  we  suppose  they  must  mean, 
there  can  be  no  dispute  with  regard  to  early  reli 
gious  instruction,  except  with  infidels,  or  those  who 
merit  the  name  by  their  perversion  or  neglect  of  the 
Bible.  But  with  such  we  are  willing  to  argue  briefly 
on  other  than  Scriptural  grounds. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  assert,  without  fear  of 
contradiction,  that  in  communities  where  the  Bible  is 
a  common  book,  for  every  young  person  that  is  in- 


EARLY   RELIGIOUS    INSTRUCTION.  269 

jured  by  error,  superstition,  fanaticism,  or  moroseness, 
derived  from  early  religious  impressions,  there  are 
tens  and  hundreds  that  are  far  more  injured  for  the 
want  of  seasonable  religious  instruction.  What  are, 
in  fact,  the  great  sources  of  vice  and  ruin  to  the 
young  in  such  communities  ?  Who  ever  heard  of 
religion,  pure  or  erroneous,  amidst  their  scenes  of 
idleness,  quarrelling,  gambling,  drinking,  revelry, 
drunkenness,  prodigality,  and  debauchery,  except 
when  it  sounds  a  secret  note  of  alarm,  through 
an  accusing  but  stifled  conscience  ?  It  will  be  a 
new  era  in  the  history  of  such  communities,  when 
these  ruinous  irregularities  can  be  ascribed  to  the 
errors,  and  not  to  the  want  of  early  religious  instruc 
tion. 

The  actual  evils,  then,  of  religious  mistake,  under 
the  advantages  which  we  enjoy,  are  no  more  to  be 
compared  to  the  evils  which  religion  is  designed  and 
calculated  to  prevent  and  remedy,  than  a  cold  or 
headache  to  the  pestilence.  It  is  proposed,  however, 
to  substitute  wordly  considerations  for  the  mighty 
power  of  religious  motives  ;  as  if  they  had  not  been 
tried  before ;  as  if  the  world  were  reforming  too 
rapidly ;  as  if  the  furious  horse,  even  while  he  is 
bursting  through  the  barriers  of  brass  and  shattering 
curbs  of  steel,  may  be  considered  already  mild 
enough  to  be  led  by  a  hair,  or  confined  by  hedges 
of  poppies ;  as  if  the  temptations  of  the  age  may  be 
warded  by  a  shield  of  bulrushes,  and  rampant  nature 


270  SELECTED  EDITORIALS. 

in  the  blood  and  brains  of  youth  may  be  checked 
and  controlled  by  curbs  of  tinsel. 

We  look  at  the  tests  of  experience.  We  look  at  the 
actual  condition  of  society.  We  have  no  respect  for 
those  Utopian  schemes  which  are  not  at  all  adapted 
to  that  condition,  but  to  the  imaginary  condition  of 
an  imaginary  people.  We  have  thus  far  advocated 
early  religious  instruction,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
worldly  benefits  and  worldly  advantages.  We  have 
not  taken  into  the  account  the  infinite  importance  of 
preparing,  in  due  season  and  in  a  proper  manner,  for 
a  certain  and  unchangeable  eternity. 

We  slight  mere  worldly  motives,  in  training  the 
young,  not  only  on  account  of  their  comparative  in- 
efficacy,  but  on  account  of  their  actual  tendency,  as 
it  is  very  often  exhibited.  Fashion  and  custom  are 
the  almost  universal  powers  of  worldly  principalities ; 
and  it  need  not  be  told  how  despotic  is  their  sway 
among  worldly  motives,  nor  how  often  they  are  even 
hostile  to  the  purity  of  virtue,  the  correctness  of  taste, 
and  the  excellence  of  character. 

Besides,  the  youthful  heart  is  apt  to  aspire  to  mere 
greatness  :  it  may  be  greatness  of  merit  or  greatness 
in  crime ;  and  it  naturally  pants  no  more  to  emulate 
a  Solon  or  a  Daniel,  than  a  Tamerlane  or  Bonaparte. 
Though  it  is  seen  that  the  indulgence  of  vicious  pro 
pensities  is  in  general  a  hindrance  to  great  attain 
ments,  yet  as  there  are  some  exceptions  to  tins  uvn- 
eral  rule,  and  as  each  fancies  himself  one  of  the  mini- 


CUSTOMS   AT   FUNERALS.  271 

ber,  he  is  not  unlikely  to  endeavor  to  make  his  way, 
through  the  recklessness  of  moral  restraints,  to  the 
distinction  which  he  desires.  Thus,  for  one  chance 
of  guilty  eminence,  he  runs  a  thousand  of  wretched 
debasement. 

If  these  views  are  correct ;  if  there  is  an  obligation 
resting  somewhere  to  bring  information  and  motives 
from  the  eternal  world  to  bear  upon  the  movements 
of  the  youthful  mind,  and  to  aid  in  the  formation  of 
the  youthful  character,  it  doubtless  rests  especially  on 
those  to  whose  care  they  are  intrusted,  in  the  event 
ful  and  often  dangerous  connections  and  transitions 
of  colleges,  schools,  and  academies  ;  where,  separated 
from  the  restraints  and  happy  influence  of  home, 
they  are  hastening  to  a  moral  and  intellectual  matu 
rity,  and  putting  forth  a  profusion  of  bloom  which 
many  a  mildew  threatens  to  blight,  and  many  a  cor 
rupting  contagion  may  turn  to  excrescence  or  bring 
to  premature  decay. 

CUSTOMS    AT    FUNERALS. 

FASHION  obtrudes  itself  even  at  the  threshold  of  the 
grave.  Customs  have  been  established  which  often 
give  pain  to  the  sober.  Yet  they  must  be  observed 
by  the  most  discreet.  When  a  friend  dies,  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  departed  should  not  become  the  resort  of 
the  curious  or  vacant  crowd.  None  but  the  most  in 
timate  of  the  family  circle  should  presume  to  ask  ad 
mittance.  Quietness  is  essential  to  absorbing  grief, 


272  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

and  strange  faces  pain  hearts  which  are  wrung  with 
bitterness  and  anguish.  We  would  dispense  with  all 
the  machinery  of  preparation,  where  tailors,  mantua- 
makers,  and  milliners  congregate,  to  talk  gossip  and 
speculate  upon  dress  and  the  latest  fashions.  There 
is  in  all  these  hurried  and  jarring  operations,  where 
the  dead  lies  untombed,  a  mockery  of  woe. 

Private  funerals  are  most  impressive.  They  are  in 
accordance  with  the  sensitive  feelings,  which  shun 
contact  with  observation,  when  bleeding  from  com 
plicated  wounds.  Funerals  should  be  simple,  unos 
tentatious,  not  disfigured  with  pomp,  and  parade,  and 
nodding  plumes,  in  long  procession.  The  shocking 
mummery  of  hired  mourners,  seen  in  an  array  of 
empty  carriages,  whether  bipeds  or  quadrupeds, 
should  be  rejected  as  an  abomination.  The  religious 
exercises  should  be  condensed,  comprehensive,  and 
suitably  fitted  to  the  place,  the  person,  and  the  occa 
sion.  The  simple  prayer  of  affection  at  the  burial  of 
a  virtuous  man,  in  a  village  grave-yard,  is  more  touch 
ing  and  impressive  than  all  the  regal  pomp  and  mer 
cenary  display  thrones  can  command.  We  would 
that  the  lifeless  remains  should  be  deposited  in  the 
grave  with  simplicity  and  reverence,  with  the  entire 
absence  of  heartless  show  and  empty  pageantry.  This 
is  in  accordance  with  chastened  taste.  Certainly  they 
have  the  sanction  of  Christianity. 


PROVINCE    OF   SABBATH-SCHOOLS.  273 

PROVINCE    OF    SABBATH-SCHOOLS. 

THE  modesty  of  the  Sabbath-school  institution 
brought  upon  it  at  first  the  indifference  of  some — the 
contempt  of  others.  But  there  were  those  who  had 
the  wisdom  to  perceive  that  merit  does  not  always 
consist  in  noise  and  parade,  and  who,  overlooking 
the  comparative  insignificance  of  the  institution,  and 
fixing  their  eyes  on  remote  results,  found  in  it  an 
importance  which  appealed  to  their  deepest  sympa 
thies,  and  warranted  their  most  strenuous  efforts. 
They  saw  consequences  flowing  from  this  institution 
which  involved  the  highest  interests  of  society ;  they 
determined  by  self-denial  and  indefatigable  exertions 
to  sustain  it,  and  for  years  plied  their  humble  task 
with  the  patience  and  zeal  of  the  martyr.  No  orator 
lifted  an  eloquent  voice  in  eulogy  of  their  sacrifices 
and  efforts ;  no  poet  rolled  their  silent  triumphs 
through  his  applauding  numbers ;  yet  they  went  on 
with  unfaltering  constancy  and  firmness.  Such  cour 
age  and  perseverance  show  that  piety  has  within  it 
self  that  wThich  can  dispense  with  the  stimulants  of 
human  applause. 

They  who  are  engaged  in  giving  instructions  in 
the  Sabbath-school  are  molding  the  very  elements  of 
society ;  they  are  filling  the  future  with  the  living 
monuments  of  their  own  virtue.  They  are  training 
for  posterity  the  advocates  of  piety  and  patriotism, 
whose  influence  will  be  felt  in  the  undisclosed  des 
tinies  of  this  nation.  They  are  fashioning  for  a 
12* 


274:  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

brighter  sphere  spirits  over  whom  death  and  the 
grave  have  no  power. 

It  is  this  living  and  acting  for  the  future  that  dig 
nifies  and  ennobles  life ;  it  is  this  supreme  reference 
to  interests  which  shall  quicken  when  we  are  dead, 
that  invests  our  conduct  with  abiding  greatness ; 
and  this  is  the  homage  which  this  nation  owes  every 
individual  who  is  submitting  to  the  self-denying  la 
bors  of  the  Sabbath-school.  The  most  retired  female 
in  these  nurseries  of  morality  and  religion  is  touch 
ing  a  string  that  will  vibrate  when  all  the  harps  of 
mortal  minstrelsy  are  silent ;  she  is  lighting  a  taper 
that  will  burn  when  suns  expire ;  she  is  laying  a 
tram  of  influences  which  will  move  on  when  the 
schemes  of  the  profoundest  politician  shall  have 
reached  their  utmost  limit. 

There  is,  in  our  opinion,  no  institution  upon  earth 
BO  humble  in  its  pretensions,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
so  commanding  in  its  effects,  as  that  of  the  Sabbath- 
school.  It  exists  among  us  without  noise,  operates 
without  parade,  and  is  accomplishing  the  most  stu 
pendous  results  without  any  of  the  showy  appen 
dages  that  usually  accompany  a  great  enterprise.  It 
is  like  a  stream  which  has  no  cataracts  to  astonish  us 
with  their  magnificent  thunder,  but  which  winds 
along  in  the  tranquil  valley,  asserting  its  existence 
only  in  the  life  and  verdure  which  appear  along  its 
course. 


THE   FOJRCE   OF   PARENTAL   EDUCATION.  275 

THE    FORCE    OF    PARENTAL    EDUCATION. 

THE  parent  should  never  resign  his  child  to  the 
influence  of  chance,  and  do  nothing  for  him  because 
he  cannot  do  every  thing.  He  can  aid  in  the  devel 
opment  of  his  faculties ;  he  can  turn  the  current  of 
feelings  into  suitable  channels ;  he  can  fix  his  attention 
on  worthy  objects.  He  can  present  examples  of  sub 
lime  eminence  in  poetry,  and  tempt  the  wing  of  his 
fancy  towards  heaven  ;  he  can  pour  the  impassioned 
language  of  the  orator  on  his  ear,  and  waken  his 
heart  to  the  majesty  of  eloquence  ;  he  can  spread  be 
fore  him  the  results  of  science,  and  rouse  his  curios 
ity  ;  he  can  echo  the  language  of  the  dying  patriot, 
and  kindle  a  love  of  country;  he  can  call  up  the  sen 
timents  of  the  martyr  to  virtue,  and  inspire  a  venera 
tion  for  exalted  goodness.  These  young  sentiments 
he  can  nourish ;  he  can  plant  them  as  vigorous 
shoots  deep  in  the  soul ;  he  can  twine  them  with  the 
roots  of  every  principle  in  his  moral  and  intellectual 
being ;  and,  if  the  harvest  does  not  equal  his  reason 
able  expectations,  his  withered  hopes  will  at  least 
find  consolation  in  the  consciousness  of  duties  dis 
charged. 

In  the  power  of  habit,  however,  he  has  a  strong, 
though  conditional  pledge  of  success.  This  myste 
rious  power,  by  uniting  itself  with  the  tenderness  of 
our  nature,  lays  the  foundation  for  improvement,  and 
becomes  the  guarantee  of  exalted  excellence ;  or  it 
hastens  our  progress  to  ruin,  and  binds  us  over  to  ir- 


276  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

retrievable  sorrow.  "We  may  be  insensible  to  its 
transforming  power,  and  dream  only  of  its  imbecil 
ity  ;  but  wlien  the  revery  of  our  dream  is  past,  we 
shall  find  that  under  its  subtle  energy  our  tenden 
cies,  whether  good  or  bad,  have  been  strengthened ; 
that  our  characters  have  become  more  fixed,  and 
that  we  are  nearer  the  illustrious  limit  which  mor 
tality  has  affixed  to  human  excellence ;  or  nearer 
that  inglorious  grave,  where  we  can  hope  to  escape 
shame  and  contempt  only  in  the  forgetfulness  of 
mankind. 

The  parent  may  gaze  with  prying  intensity  upon 
his  infant  boy — catch  eagerly  every  expression  that 
breaks  from  his  undissembling  features — watch  the 
gathering  intimations  of  intelligence,  and  the  bright 
ening  dawn  of  reflection;  he  may  discover  in  his 
countenance  a  resemblance  to  that  of  men  who  have 
been  eminent  in  genius,  learning,  and  patriotism  ; 
and  he  may  fancy  that  he  has  ascertained  what  age 
will  do  for  this  young  object  of  his  solicitude ;  but  it 
is  mere  fancy — aside  from  the  influence  he  can  exert 
on  his  education,  he  can  form  no  rational  conjecture 
respecting  the  future  character  of  his  child. 

For  aught  he  can  tell,  the  difficult  sciences  may 
lie  beyond  the  grasp  of  his  intellect,  the  regions  of 
poetry  soar  beyond  the  reach  of  his  genius,  and  the 
political  creed  of  his  nation  lie  beyond  the  extent  of 
his  comprehension ;  or  the  dark  lineaments  of  vice 
may  one  day  creep  over  that  countenance — the  deep 


JOHN   QTJINCY   ADAMS.  277 

shadows  of  unbridled  passion  cast  over  that  brow,  or 
the  weight  of  accumulated  sorrows  crush  that  heart 
which  now  beats  joyfully  to  his  clasping  hand.  He 
may,  indeed,  realize  his  glorious  hopes  in  the  future 
happiness,  the  moral  and  intellectual  elevation  of  his 
child  ;  but  these  are  to  be  the  result  of  circumstances 
over  which  he  has  so  limited  a  control,  that  he  can 
not  calculate  on  it  with  assurance. 

JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS. 

WE  were  in  the  Hall  of  the  House  of  Representa 
tives,  when  the  concerted  attack  of  the  South  and 
"West  on  the  old  statesman  of  Massachusetts  unrolled 
its  thunder.  It  was  fierce  and  terrific ;  it  seemed 
to  embody  the  bursting  force  of  long  accumulated 
wrath.  It  came  down  with  a  shock  that  took  away 
men's  breath.  It  for  a  time  overpowered  even  sym 
pathy,  and  left  the  victim  of  its  vengeance  silent 
arid  solitary  under  the  appalling  crime  of  perjury 
.and  treason.  The  silence  which  followed  was  like 
that  which  invests  the  verdict  of  a  jury  awarding 
death ! 

In  this  silence  the  old  statesman  slowly  rose  from 
his  seat,  feeble  under  the  weight  of  years ;  the  dim 
light  of  the  Hall  falling  faintly  on  his  bald  head, 
and  touching  the  few  gray  hairs  that  remained.  He 
stood  there  the  representative  of  the  past ;  the  sur 
vivor  of  a  generation  now  gone ;  and  his  own  step 
only  lingering  ere  it  should  bear  him  to  the  silent 


278  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

assemblage  of  the  dead.  He  was  calm  ;  passion 
was  still ;  a  sense  of  wrong  and  a  consciousness  of 
right  shed  over  him  an  air  of  solemn  dignity  and 
repose — 

"  His  look 

Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night, 
Or  summer's  noontide  air." 

The  old  man  knew  his  strength,  and  where  it  lay. 
A  few  bold  strokes  at  constitutional  law,  and  the 
principles  involved  in  our  great  charter  of  freedom, 
and  light  flashed  forth :  the  dark  accusations  of  his 
opponents  melted  away  like  vapor  at  the  rising  sun. 
He  now  stood  as  one  on  a  lofty  rock  from  which  the 
clouds  have  passed,  challenging  himself  the  spirits 
of  the  departing  storm. 

To  his  accuser  from  the  West,  who  had  been 
seduced  into  the  position  of  a  prosecutor  by  false 
friends,  he  was  somewhat  lenient.  Still,  he  swept 
away  his.  legal  pretensions,  and  left  his  judicial 
claims  only  that  bewildered  respect  inspired  by  his 
other  qualities.  The  pity  reserved  for  the  accused, 
strayed  off  through  an  unexpected  channel  to  meet 
the  wants  of  the  accuser. 

To  his  accuser  from  the  South  he  was  less  lenient, 
as  his  attack  had  flown  obviously  from  the  most 
malicious  motives.  Fastening  his  steady  eye  upon 
him,  he  said — There  came  into  this  House  a  few 
years  since,  a  man  stained  with  the  crime  of  mur 
der  :  his  expulsion  was  proposed ;  I  threw  myself 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS.  270 


between  that  man  and  the  execution  of  this  purpose, 
declaring  against  the  constitutional  competency  of 
this  House  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  crime.  This 
man  now  comes  here,  with  the  blood  of  a  fellow- 
being  still  dripping  from  his  garments,  and  charges 
me  with  perjury  and  treason  for  having  presented  a 
petition  !  Let  him  go  and  appease  the  shade  of  the 
murdered  Cilley  ;  let  him  purge  from  his  soul 

"  The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off." 

Here  he  paused,  when ,  pale  and  confounded, 

rose,  and  sought  to  escape  responsibility  through  a 
deeper  implication  of  his  associates.  He  sought  to 
heave  the  crime  from  his  own  breast  upon  that  of 
others,  and  to  effect  this,  violated  all  the  obligations 
of  personal  friendship,  all  the  sanctities  of  private 
confidence.  Such  is  the  honor  of  duelling  when  put 
to  the  test. 

We  have  noticed  this  scene,  not  for  the  purpose 
of  casting  odium  on  the  accusers  of  Mr.  Adams,  but 
to  bring  out  one  great  practical  truth — the  moral 
power  of  being  in  the  right.  It  was  this  which 
gave  the  accused  his  strength,  his  defence,  his  vindi 
cation.  It  was  this  sacred  constitutional  right  of 
the  constituent  to  petition  his  representative,  which 
armed  him  against  the  most  fearful  odds  and  ren 
dered  him  invincible.  This  right  is  independent  of 
abolition  movements ;  it  derives  not  its  breath  or 
being  from  that  quarter.  The  slave  question  has 


280  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

only  brought  it  to  the  test ;  it  will  survive  the  ordeal 
and  triumph.  It  will  live,  assert  itself,  direct  opin 
ion,  and  shape  measures,  when  they  who  have  bat 
tled  against  it  have  moldered  in  their  graves. 

We  must  come  back  again  to  the  ways  of  our  fore 
fathers.  We  must  select  men  of  years,  experience, 
and  practical  wisdom,  as  legislators.  We  must  dis 
miss  young  Hotspurs  to  the  stumps  and  pot-houses 
from  whence  they  came.  Even,  if  sober  in  their 
habits,  they  must  still  tarry  in  Jericho  till  their 
beards  are  grown.  Their  youth,  inexperience,  noisy 
oratory,  and  sprouting  ambition,  are  a  burlesque  on 
grave  legislation.  How  we  were  ever  weak  enough 
to  send  them,  is  one  of  those  problems  in  human 
folly  which  will  never  be  explained.  But  there  they 
are,  and  there  they  will  remain  till  we  supply  their 
places  with  men  better  fitted  to  the  station. 

Their  situation  is  as  much  a  subject  of  ridicule 
among  themselves,  as  it  is  of  humiliation  to  the  pub 
lic.  They  have  one  merit,  at  least,  that  of  properly 
appreciating  each  other.  No  one  mistakes  his  com 
panion  for  a  Solon.  He  knows  full  well  where  sound 
may  pass  for  sense,  and  silly  personalities  assume 
the  shape  of  sober  reproof.  They  have  wit  sufficient 
to  discover  the  faults  of  others,  though  not  enough  to 
detect  their  own.  This  partial  sagacity  age  may 
perhaps  mature  into  something  better :  they  may 
then  perhaps  be  returned  &>  the  places  which  they 
now  occupy.  But  till  then,  it  would  be  kindiu 


DANIEL   WEBSTER.  281 


them,  as  well  as  a  duty  to  the  public,  to  allow  them 
to  remain  at  home.  One  old  statesman  like  John 
Quiricy  Adams,  can  rout  a  hundred  of  them.  He 
merely  uses  one  portion  of  them  as  weapons  with 
which  to  demolish  the  rest ;  or  he  ties  them  together, 
like  Sampson's  foxes,  with  fire-brands  in  their  tails. 

DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

To  be  misrepresented,  abused,  calumniated,  is  the 
penalty  which  greatness  pays  for  station.  The  same 
individual  who  is  slandered  in  a  public  position,  in 
a  private  one  passes  unharmed.  Calumnies  are  like 
storms,  striking  with  the  greatest  force  the  most  ele 
vated  objects. 

Were  Daniel  Webster  a  private  citizen,  or  merely 
exercising  his  great  powers  at  the  bar,  who  believes 
that  the  slanders  with  which  he  is  now  assailed 
would  have  been  set  afloat  ?  Even  if  there  had  been 
just  occasion,  calumny  would  only  have  spoken  in 
whispers ;  but  it  is  now  open-mouthed  and  unscrupu 
lous.  It  has  at  last,  however,  committed  one  of  those 
excesses  in  which  even  calumny  destroys  itself.  It 
had  passed  so  long  unrebuked,  that,  gathering  impu 
dence  and  assurance  from  previous  impunity,  it  at 
last  took  a  fatal  stride,  and  perished  in  the  enormity 
of  the  outrage  attempted  on  the  innocent.  It  was 
like  a  wild  beast  rushing  at  a  man  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  and  which,  najssing  its  object,  plunges 
itself  over  the  steep  verge  and  perishes  in  the  abyss. 


SELECTED   EDITOKIALS. 


It  has  been  our  lot  to  spend  not  a  few  of  our  years 
in  Washington  city.  "We  have  there  had  an  oppor 
tunity  of  seeing  how  great  men  are  made  and  how 
they  are  unmade.  There  are  three  methods  of  de 
stroying  a  man  among  the  political  cliques  that  an 
nually  assemble  there.  One  is,  by  assailing  his  in 
tellectual  claims,  and  pouring  affected  contempt  on 
the  aid  he  can  bring  to  a  cause.  Another  is,  by  im 
peaching  his  political  principles,  perverting  their 
character,  rendering  them  odious,  and,  if  possible, 
infamous  with  the  public.  A  third  is,  by  undermin 
ing  his  moral  character,  overthrowing  his  private 
virtues,  and  shuddering  with  affected  horror  over 
his  unrelieved  depravity. 

'No  man  from  any  section  of  the  country,  or  from 
the  bosom  of  any  party,  ever  went  to  Washington  to 
occupy  a  commanding  political  position,  who  was 
not  assailed  through  one  or  more  of  these  three  chan 
nels.  We  challenge  the  individual  who  may  ques 
tion  the  correctness  of  this  allegation,  to  find  a  soli 
tary  exception  to  its  sweeping  truth.  Let  him  call 
to  mind  all  the  great  names  that  have  figured  at  the 
seat  of  Government,  and  designate,  if  he  can,  one 
who  has  not  been  attacked,  abused,  and  slandered, 
in  one  of  the  three  forms  which  we  have  named. 
Even  Washington,  he  will  find,  did  not  escape  jeal 
ousy  and  reproach. 

Mr.  Webster  could  not  be  reached  through  his  in 
tellectual  claims,  for  they  were  known  and  confessed 


DANIEL   WEBSTER.  283 


of  all  men.  He  could  not  be  successfully  assailed 
through  his  political  principles,  for  these,  as  exhibit 
ed  in  the  weightier  actions  of  his  life,  were  regarded 
as  sound  and  patriotic.  His  private  character,  how 
ever,  remained  as  a  medium  of  attack.  This  is  what 
no  public  acts  can  thoroughly  protect  in  any  one : 
the  visible  cannot  serve  as  a  protection  for  the  invis 
ible — the  known,  for  the  unknown.  Here,  then,  lay 
the  great  point  of  attack. 

Out  of  this  unknown,  monsters  were  formed  to 
suit  the  most  malevolent  purpose,  and  then  against 
these  creations  a  constant  flight  of  arrows  wrere  dis 
charged,  till,  at  last,  a  portion  of  the  public,  deceived 
and  duped  in  the  matter,  began  to  believe  in  the 
reality  of  the  objects  against  which  this  war  of  vir 
tuous  indignation  was  carried  on.  They  who  sped 
the  shafts  knew  they  were  shooting  at  shadows ;  or, 
rather,  through  shadows,  at  virtue,  uprightness,  and 
commanding  worth.  The  arrows  ever  rebounded  ; 
often  wounding  and  killing  those  who  threw  them. 
But  the  wounded  were  bandaged,  and  the  dead 
buried  unseen  and  in  silence. 

The  man  who  may  now  believe  the  slanders 
heaped  on  Mr.  "Webster,  and  congratulate  himself 
on  his  exemption  from  such  faults,  should  he  ex 
change  situations  with  that  great  statesman,  might 
soon  find  his  own  character  and  claims  crumbling 
away  under  the  assaults  of  his  adversaries.  Per 
sonal  jealousy,  party  interest,  and  political  rancor, 


284:  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

would  not  spare  him.  He  might  appeal  to  his  integ 
rity,  his  uncorrupted  honor,  but  his  appeal  would  be 
in  vain.  The  martyr  at  the  stake  might  as  well  talk 
of  that  faith  which  led  to  his  persecution,  and  for 
which  the  fagot  has  been  lighted.  If  such  would 
inevitably  be  our  own  fate,  we  should  have  a  little 
charity  for  those  who  share  it  in  our  stead.  This 
war  on  Mr.  Webster  has  been  carried  on  longer  than 
that  which  levelled  the  strength  of  ancient  Troy. 
But  the  citadel  of  his  fame  still  holds  out ;  bastion 
and  tower  remain.  There  it  stands,  and  there  it  will 
continue  to  stand,  through  this  and  coming  genera 
tions.  Time  will  hallow,  but  not  impair  its  strength ; 
while  each  departing  year  will  cast  upon  it  an  imper 
ishable  garland ! 

DEATH  OF  GENERAL  HARRISON. 

THE  President  is  no  more  !  He  breathed  his  last 
at  half  past  twelve  to-night.  He  was  aware  of  his 
approaching  end ;  anticipated  it  with  composure  and 
Christian  resignation.  It  brought  with  it  to  him  no 
terrors,  no  dismay,  though  it  will  fill  multitudes  with 
surprise  and  sorrow.  The  sudden  and  fatal  termina 
tion  of  his  disease  was  apprehended  more  by  himself 
than  others.  He  retained  his  reason,  with  a  good 
degree  of  vividness  and  force,  to  the  last :  his  energies 
rallied  at  intervals,  but  were  at  last  overpowered. 
He  took  leave  of  his  family  and  friends  as  one  that  is 
going  on  a  journey,  and  expects  soon  to  meet  again 


DEATH  OF  GENERAL  HARRISON.        285 

those  from  whom  he  parts.  The  members  of  the 
cabinet  were  present,  and  received  his  last  injunction. 
Tears  fell  from  eyes  that  seldom  weep.  He  died  like 
a  statesman  and  a  Christian ;  his  last  thoughts  were 
for  his  country,  his  last  hopes  in  his  God. 

"  YOU  UNDERSTAND  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  CONSTITU 
TION YOU  WILL  SEE  THAT  THEY  ARE  FAITHFULLY  CARRIED 

OUT,"  were  the  last  words  uttered  by  William  Henry 
Harrison.  Overpowered  by  his  disease,  he  had  sunk 
into  a  state  of  apparent  insensibility,  but  before  this 
relapse,  had  requested  that  the  Yice-President  be 
sent  for ;  in  his  revery  that  followed  he  had,  it  would 
seem,  imagined  his  request  fulfilled,  when  emerging 
with  sudden  energy  from  this  state,  he  fastened  his 
eyes  wildly  on  his  supposed  friend,  and  uttered  the 
words  which  I  have  quoted;  then  sunk  away  and 
soon  breathed  his  last ! 

His  death  has  filled  all  hearts  with  grief  and  gloom. 
The  event  has  come  so  suddenly  that  no  one  seemed 
prepared  to  meet  it ;  indeed  it  now  seems  more  like 
some  tragic  dream  than  a  mournful  reality.  Men 
can  hardly  persuade  themselves  that  WILLIAM  HENRY 
HARRISON  is  dead.  But,  alas !  it  is  true ;  and  we 
must  bow  resignedly  to  this  afflictive  dispensation  of 
an  all-wise  Providence. 

But  one  month,  and  what  a  change  of  condition  in 
the  man  of  our  choice!  How.  wide  the  extremes 
separated  by  this  brief  interval  of  time !  Then  he 
stood  forth  encircled  with  the  splendors  .of  the  in- 


286  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

anguration,  and  the  enthusiastic  confidence  of  mil 
lions.  Now  he  lies  in  the  silent  embrace  of  death  ! 
Thousands  came  to  utter  their  congratulations,  and 
invest  him  with  the  high  robes  of  his  office.  They 
will  now  come  to  pay  the  tribute  of  their .  tears,  and 
wrap  him  in  the  dark  pall  of  the  hearse !  With  him 
life,  light,  and  a  nation's  love,  are  all  exchanged  for 
the  perpetual  night  of  the  grave ! 

Men  will  long  speak  of  his  worth,  and  mourn  his 
death  ;  but  the  tokens  of  their  reverence  and  sorrow 
can  never  reach  him.  They  who  sought  to  darken 
his  fair  fame,  and  defeat  his  honorable  ambition,  will 
now  relent,  but  their  regrets  can  never  pass  the  stern 
barrier  of  his  repose.  The  voice  of  eulogy,  and  the 
tones  of  accusation  will  fall  alike  unheard  on  the 
stillness  of  his  tomb !  The  flowers  may  spring  there, 
the  young  tree  put  forth  its  green  leaves,  and  the 
birds  sing  in  its  branches,  but  his  senses  are  all  sealed 
to  their  freshness  and  melody.  The  soldier  will  still 
rouse  himself  at  the  roll  of  the  morning  drum,  but 
that  rallying  call  will  never  more  break  the  slumbers 
of  his  rest.  "With  him  the  weapons  of  war  are  all 
laid  aside,  and  the  watch-fires  have  gone  out !  When 
will  it  be  morn  in  the  grave ! 

He  is  gone!  the  moral  workman  has  been  removed, 
but  the  principles  which  he  has  molded  abide ;  the 
torch  has  been  quenched,  but  the  lamp  it  has  lighted 
still  burns  on ;  the  bow  has  been  broken,  but  the 
arrow  is  sped  and  will  reach  its  destination.  William 


FUNERAL   OF   PRESIDENT   HARBISON.  287 

Henry  Harrison  is  dead,  but  the  light  and  influence 
of  his  virtues  survive,  and  the  moral  elements  of  this 
nation  will  long  show  the  evidences  of  their  vigor 
and  purity,  as  the  western  sky,  when  the  sun  has  set, 
still  betrays  the  glowing  traces  of  the  departed  orb. 

From  the  pale  relic  that  now  awaits  only  the  last 
sad  tribute  of  our  respect,  an  admonition  comes  to 
each  and  to  all — "  Be  ye  also  ready,  for  in  such  an 
hour  as  ye  think  not,  the  Son  of  Man  cometh." 
Shall  that  voice  pass  unheeded  ?  shall  the  accents  of 
the  dead  be  lightly  regarded  ?  The  web  may  have 
left  the  loom  that  is  to  weave  our  shroud ;  the  tree 
may  have  left  the  forest  that  is  to  build  our  coffin ; 
before  another  sun  goes  down  we  may  find  a  grave 
sunk  across  our  path  :  beyond  that  grave  we  cannot 
go ;  and  the  character  which  we  carry  with  us  down 
into  its  silent  recesses,  we  carry  with  us  to  the  tri 
bunal  of  our  God. 

FUNERAL    OF    PRESIDENT    HARRISON. 

WASHINGTON,  April  7,  1841. 

THE  funeral  service  for  the  deceased  President  was 
performed  in  the  great  saloon  of  the  Executive  man 
sion.  The  coffin  was  placed  in  the  centre ;  in  a  wide 
circle  around  it  were  seated  the  members  of  the  be 
reaved  family,  the  Yice-President  and  Cabinet,  ex- 
President  Adams,  with  the  late  Secretaries  of  State 
and  War,  the  foreign  ministers,  the  attending  phy 
sicians,  the  twentv-four  pall-bearers,  and  the  clergy. 


2 SB  SELECTED    EDITORIALS. 

The  rest  of  the  saloon  was  filled  with  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  anxious  to  participate  in  the  solemnities  of 
the  occasion.  The  service  was  read  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Halley  of  this  city,  out  of  the  Bible  and  Prayer-book 
purchased  by  Gen.  Harrison,  for  his  private  use,  a 
few  weeks  since  in  this  city.  He  found  the  mansion 
without  either  of  these  books,  and  his  first  business 
was  to  procure  them. 

It  is  a  singular  circumstance,  and  pleasing  as  it  is 
singular,  that  the  last  chapter  which  General  Har 
rison  read  in  his  Bible,  is  the  one  so  much  used  in 
the  burial  service ;  it  is  the  15th  of  the  1st  of  Cor 
inthians.  Had  it  pleased  an  all-wise  Providence  to 
spare  the  life  of  the  deceased  President,  the  Executive 
mansion  would  have  presented  a  good  example  of 
religious  decorum  and  domestic  piety.  But  for  ends, 
mysterious  to  us,  it  has  been  ordered  otherwise.  It 
becomes  us,  without  a  murmur,  to  bow  to  this  be 
reavement.  Our  plans  and  purposes  are  the  result 
of  a  knowledge  that  is  dim  and  imperfect ;  they  are 
overruled  by  superior  wisdom  and  goodness  for  our 
benefit.  Bereavement  and  affliction  often  lay  us 
under  the  deepest  obligations  to  their  Author.  Pros 
perity  may  make  us  gay,  but  adversity  makes  us  wise, 
and  sorrows  sanctified  make  us  good.  It  is  the  frui 
tions  of  a  higher  state  for  which  we  should  live  ;  the 
happiness  of  a  better  world  for  which  we  should  be 
willing  to  resign  the  pleasures  of  this. 

This  is  a  dark  day;  dark  in  its  aspect;  still  darker 


FUNERAL    OF   PRESIDENT   HARBISON.  289 

in  its  events.  The  clouds  hang  in  heavy  masses,  and 
cast  far  and  wide  below  their  desponding  shadows  ; 
the  city  is  veiled  in  gloom,  every  dwelling  is  dressed 
in  the  coronals  of  the  grave.  The  vast  multitudes 
that  have  assembled  to  witness  the  solemnities  of  the 
day,  are  wrapt  in  silent  sorrow ;  it  is  the  stillness  of 
an  all-pervading  grief  for  the  departed — the  voiceless' 
homage  of  man's  heart  to  death.  Only  the  great 
river  moves  on  its  wonted  way ;  that  still  rolls  to  the 
ocean — an  emblem  of  our  eternal  existence. 

The  solemn  service  for  the  dead  now  fills  the 
gloomy  halls  of  the  Executive  mansion.  In  its  dark 
saloons  kneel  the  beauty  of  the  city,  the  associates  of 
the  deceased,  the  renowned  in  the  field,  the  forum, 
and  pulpit,  and  the  condoling  dignitaries  of  other 
lands.  Upon  all  falls  a  deep  sense  of  bereavement, 
and  a  sad  earnest  of  the  time  when  they  who  weep 
will  claim  for  themselves  these  last  tokens  of  respect 
and  sorrow.  All  are  bound  to  the  inevitable  grave, 
and  the  revisions  of  the  judgment-bar. 

The  body  is  borne  in  slow  and  solemn  state  from 
the  portals  of  the  mansion  to  the  armed  lines  \  they 
open  and  receive  it  with  presented  arms.  Then  wakes- 
from  martial  bands  the  deep  anthem  of  the  dead. 
Then  peals  aloud  from  steeple  and  tower  the  mono 
tone  of  the  funeral  knell ;  then  rolls  from  the  steps  of 
the  capitol  the  thunders  of  the  minute-gun. 

The  coffin,  veiled  in  darkness,  and  wreathed  with 
that  type  of  our  immortality  which  blooms  in  the  ever- 

13 


290  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

green,  is  lifted  to  the  sable  hearse.  Amid  the  un 
dying  leaf  lies  the  roll  of  the  Constitution.  Six  milk- 
white  steeds,  each  with  its  African  groom  in  white, 
and  all  draped  in  mourning,  are  to  roll  the  funeral 
car.  The  procession,  stretching  far  away  till  dis 
tance  becomes  dim,  is  formed.  Flashing  arms,  glan 
cing  helmets,  nodding  plumes,  the  liveries  of  state, 
and  banners  in  the  dark  symbols  of  grief,  wave  over 
all.  The  roll  of  the  muffled  drum,  through  the  inter 
vals  of  the  column,  gives  the  signal,  and  the  long 
procession,  with  slow  and  measured  tread,  moves  for 
ward.  It  comes  down  the  wide  avenue  which  lies 
through  the  heart  of  the  city.  Every  building  that 
lines  it  is  in  mourning.  The  thousands  that  from 
pavement,  porch,  roof,  and  balcony  watch  its  progress, 
are  mute;  and  every  ear  is  turned  to  the  solemn 
dirge  of  the  dead.  The  sigh  of  sorrow  breaks  from 
the  oppressed  heart ;  tears  fall  from  eyes  that  seldom 
weep. 

The  tomb,  on  the  living  outline  of  the  city,  is  at 
length  reached ;  the  procession  is  suspended  in  its 
steps ;  the  body  is  borne  from  the  funeral  car  to  the 
silent  chambers  of  its  last  receptacle ;  a  voice  ascends 
clear  and  distinct  over  the  silent  multitude,  uttering, 
"Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord;  yea, 
saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and 
their  works  do  follow  them."  The  heavy  door  of  the 
sepulchre  returns  upon  its  complaining  hinges,  closing 
in  darkness  the  departed ;  when  the  silence  is  again 


MR.    CLAY   AND   ME.   KING.  291 

broken  by  the  volleyed  thunder  of  the  last  farewell — 
a  prelude  of  that  louder  summons  which  will  one  day 
break  up  the  sleep  of  the  grave  ! 

Thus  rest  in  peace,  and  sacred  trust,  the  remains 
of  William  Henry  Harrison — beloved  in  life,  honored 
in  death,  and  embalmed  in  the  grateful  recollections 
of  his  country.  May  his  mantle  fall  upon  his  succes 
sor,  and  the  nation  realize  the  anxious  bequest  con 
veyed  in  his  dying  injunction. 


MR.    CLAY    AND    MR.    KING. 


THE  reconciliation  of  these  distinguished  senators 
affords  unalloyed  pleasure  to  a  large  circle  of  personal 
and  political  friends.  It  is  precisely  the  course  which 
gentlemen,  possessing  a  just  sense  of  honor  and  per 
sonal  responsibility,  would  pursue.  ~No  man  should 
hesitate  to  admit  a  wrong,  or  acknowledge  an  error, 
when  it  becomes  apparent.  To  retreat  from  a  bad 
position,  which  nothing  but  misunderstanding  led 
one  to  assume,  is  not  only  virtuous,  but  an  imperative 
duty.  The  language  of  menace  and  detraction  which 
is  used  to  such  an  alarming  extent  among  the  mem 
bers  of  Congress,  demands  the  serious  attention  of 
that  body.  Reformation  and  reform  are  needed  in 
the  legislative  halls,  at  Washington,  quite  as  much 
as  economy  is  desired  in  the  finances  of  the  govern 
ment.  The  rudeness  and  insults  which  are  daily  in 
vogue  there,  are  subjects  of  fruitful  offence  every 


292  SELECTED   EDITORIALS. 

where,  and  are  exceedingly  painful  to  the  minds  of 
reflecting,  and  honest  private  citizens. 

The  conciliatory  course  pursued  by  these  gentle 
men  will  have  its  influence,  we  confidently  believe, 
in  another  way.  It  may  lead  smaller  and  more  des 
perate  politicians  to  follow  out  an  equally  politic 
course  when  their  honor  is  thought  to  be  doubted 
or  their  characters  impeached.  One  instance  of 
virtuous  forbearance  between  distinguished  men,  such 
as  the  case  under  consideration,  will  exert  a  pro 
digious  influence  upon  public  sentiment.  We  hope 
it  will  do  something  to  check  the  career  of  the  cold 
blooded  duellist;  that  public  feeling  may  not  be 
wounded,  and  the  character  of  the  country  again 
outraged  by  the  sanguinary  deeds  of  members  of 
Congress.  The  wrongs  inflicted  upon  the  moral  sen 
sibilities  of  the  nation  by  the  wanton  sacrifice  of  Cil- 
ley,  are  not  yet  healed  or  forgotten.  God  grant  that 
this  species  of  fashionable  butchery  may  no  longer 
be  tolerated  by  public  sentiment,  or  enacted  by  those 
who  lead  in  the  great  political  and  social  improve 
ments  of  the  country.  We  rejoice  that  the  Execu 
tive  no  longer  smiles  upon  the  barbarous  practice  of 
duelling.  May  we  not  hope  that  his  frowns  upon 
the  ferocious  custom  will  not  only  bring  it  into  dis 
pute  in  private  life,  but  also  brand  it  with  infamy  in 
elevated  stations  ? 


DEATH  OF   GENERAL  JACKSON.  293 

DEATH    OF    GENERAL   JACKSON. 

THE  intelligence  of  the  death  of  General  Jackson, 
which  reached  us  yesterday  morning,  will  produce, 
wherever  it  shall  travel,  no  slight  sensation.  He  was 
no  common  man.  All  the  features  of  his  mental 
and  moral  constitution  were  strongly  marked.  He 
would  have  possessed  a  striking  individuality  of 
character  in  any  community.  His  virtues  were  never 
veiled  by  a  shrinking  modesty,  and  no  hypocrisy 
ever  disguised  his  faults. 

As  a  military  leader,  his  courage  and  sagacity  have 
never  been  questioned.  He  may  have  been  impetu 
ous,  but  he  backed  up  his  impetuosity  with  all  the 
powers  which  he  possessed.  His  strength  lay  not  in 
the  maturity  of  his  counsels,  but  in  the  quickness  of 
his  sagacity,  and  the  promptitude  of  his  action.  The 
qualities  which  crowned  him  with  victory  at  New 
Orleans,  would  probably  have  covered  him  with  dis 
aster  in  the  Revolution.  He  had  an  iron  endurance 
when  action  had  commenced,  but  an  uncontrollable 
impatience  at  the  delay  of  a  decision.  If  the  beam 
trembled  long  on  the  level,  he  made  a  preponderance, 
and  trusted  the  consequences  to  the  energy  of  his 
conduct. 

As  a  statesman  he  was  patriotic  in  his  purposes, 
and  extremely  arbitrary  in  enforcing  them.  His 
opinions  were  rather  the  result  of  impulses  than  a 
calm  comprehensive  survey  of  facts.  His  generosity 
might  be  touched,  but  his  will  was  inflexible.  His 


204  SELECTED  EDITORIALS. 

determinations  were  never  shaken  by  menace  or  de 
feated  by  difficulties.  He  was  a  democrat  in  his 
creed  and  in  his  social  intercourse,  and  an  irrespon 
sible  dictator  in  discharging  his  Executive  functions. 

He  regarded  the  constitution  as  the  sacred  ark  of 
liberty,  but  interpreted  for  himself  the  inscription  on 
the  tables  which  it  contained.  He  set  his  iron  heel 
on  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court,  but  forced  a 
refractory  state,  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  to  rever 
ence  the  authority  of  that  tribunal.  He  respectfully 
submitted  his  nominations  to  the  Senate,  but  in  the 
event  of  their  rejection  still  kept  the  incumbent  in 
place.  He  acknowledged  the  constitutional  compe 
tency  of  two-thirds  of  the  popular  branch  of  our  na 
tional  legislature  to  pass  a  law  which  met  with  his 
official  disapprobation,  but  effectually  defeated  it  by 
retaining  it  in  his  possession. 

He  overthrew,  with  Spartan  perseverance,  a  na 
tional  bank,  that  might  have  been  rechartered,  had 
his  prejudice  been  conciliated  and  not  his  power  de 
fied.  He  threw  his  political  opponents  from  place, 
not  to  gratify  personal  hostility,  but  to  appease  the 
clamor  of  pretended  friends.  It  was  his  crowning 
calamity,  as  a  statesman,  to  have  confided  where  he 
should  have  distrusted,  and  distrusted  where  he  should 
have  confided. 

As  a  citizen  he  was  beloved  and  respected.  He 
was  as  sincere  in  his  friendships  as  he  was  undiguised 
in  his  hostilities.  He  was  courteous  alike  to  all.  His 


DEATH  OF  GENERAL  JACKSON.         295 

amenity  never  forsook  him,  unless  in  some  paroxysm 
of  anger,  and  this  was  transient.  The  heavens  be 
came  clear  again  when  the  cloud  had  passed,  and 
even  before  its  thunder  had  ceased  among  the  re 
verberating  hills.  Even  in  his  stormiest  hours  the 
memory  of  his  departed  wife  would  come  over  him, 
serene  as  the  bow  arching  the  tumult  and  terror  of 
the  cataract.  His  manifestations  of  the  religious  sen 
timent  shone  out  like  stars  between  the  broken  rack 
of  the  sky.  His  last  days  were  brightened  with  the 
steadfast  hope  of  a  happy  immortality.  He  died 
with  an  unquenchable  faith  in  the  merits  of  the  Re 
deemer.  He  will  be  remembered  for  his  valor,  for 
his  iron  force  of  character,  and  the  Christian  meek 
ness  in  which  he  rendered  back  his  being.  He  has 
left  his  impress  on  his  age :  an  impress  which  time, 
disaster,  and  death  will  never  efface. 


WALTER  COLTON  IN  THE  PULPIT. 


IN  this  volume  of  Remains  hitherto,  and  in  the  previous  volumes, 
we  have  seen  Mr.  Colton  as  a  traveller,  a  journalist,  a  poet,  a 
satirist,  and  a  moralizer.  It  is  in  place  also  to  present  him  now 
as  a  sermonizer ;  handling  the  deep  things  of  God,  holding  forth 
the  word  of  life,  arguing  with  the  reason,  grappling  with  the 
conscience,  addressing  himself  to  the  religious  sensibilities  of  his 
fellow-men,  and  inviting  them  to  Christ  as  a  Christian  minister. 

Mr.  Colton  never  prepared  a  sermon  for  the  press,  nor  was  he 
in  the  habit  of  writing  his  discourses  in  full.  An  intimate  friend 
and  relative,  who  may  be  supposed  to  have  known  well  his  habits, 
says  of  him,  that  he  very  seldom  read  a  sermon,  and  scarcely  ever 
had  the  original  manuscript  about  him.  "Before  going  into  the 
pulpit  he  almost  invariably  prepared,  for  the  time,  a  new  brief. 
That  paper  was  torn  up  on  leaving  the  pulpit ;  and  if  he  preached 
the  same  sermon  on  the  next  Sabbath,  the  brief  was  again  writ 
ten,  occupying  usually  less  than  the  space  of  half  a  sheet  of 
letter-paper.  ^His  manner  in  the  pulpit  was  always  dignified 
and  solemn.  I  never  heard  him  there  indulge  in  a  quip  or 
merry  turn.  In  preaching  he  was  as  far  from  any  thing  like 
levity  as  any  man  I  ever  knew.  There  was  in  his  matter  and 
manner  a  something  which  chained  and  held  the  hearer." 

His  sermons  seem  to  have  been  logical  in  their  construction, 
and  eminently  beautiful  in  their  diction  arid  illustrations ;  and  the 
impressions  they  left  upon  the  hearer  were  always  solemn.  He 
was  a  close  preacher,  and  came  down  at  once  upon  the  con 
science  and  heart.  He  knew  that  sailors  wanted  a  something 
that  would  pierce  and  probe,  and  his  aim  was  to  give  that  to 
them.  He  clung  to  the  last  to  those  principles  of  Christian  be 
lief  often  termed  Puritan,  wherein  he  had  been  trained  in  early 


POWER   AS   A   PREACHER. 


life.  He  used  the  Episcopal  service  at  the  Naval  Station,  and  on 
board  the  man-of-war,  but  for  other  reasons  than  any  preference 
of  his  own. 

A  clerical  acquaintance  in  Philadelphia  gives  this  testimony  in 
regard  to  his  preaching  while  there  :  "  As  religious  worship  was 
observed  at  the  Naval  Station  only  in  the  morning  of  the  Sab 
bath,  Mr.  Colton  frequently  preached  for  me  in  the  afternoon  or 
evening,  and  always  to  the  great  acceptance  and  profit  of  the 
people  of  my  charge.  The  train  of  his  thoughts  was  always 
original  and  instructive ;  his  illustrations,  beautiful  and  striking ; 
his  style,  chaste  and  simple ;  and  his  applications  deeply  solemn 
and  impressive." 

Respecting  one  of  the  sermons  that  follow  here,  it  is  proper  for 
the  Editor  to  add  that  it  is  the  substance  of  that  with  regard  to 
which  Mr.  Colton  himself  said,  in  a  letter  to  his  brother,  that  the 
most  animating  and  gladdening  thing  that  ever  occurred  to  him, 
was  when  a  lady  of  great  influence  in  the  South  told  him  that 
her  attention  was  first  excited  to  personal  religion  by  his  sermon 
on  the  soul.  "  I  would  not,"  said  he,  "  exchange  that  fact,  and 
the  results  that  followed  in  her  case,  for  all  the  laurels  which  the 
most  successful  literary  course  could  win." 

A  long  period  of  time  after  the  delivery  of  another  sermon  a 
gentleman  met  and  made  himself  known  to  him  while  travelling, 
who  told  him  that  the  impressions  made  upon  his  mind  by  lis 
tening  to  a  discourse  from  him  twenty  years  before,  had  never 
been  effaced ;  and  that  the  practical  effect  of  it  he  hoped  would 
appear  in  a  son  then  travelling  with  him,  in  whose  education  he 
had  never  lost  sight  of  the  principles  illustrated  in  Mr.  Colton's 
discourse.  There  is  other  evidence,  also,  of  pleasing  practical 
results  from  his  preaching,  which,  if  narrated,  would  give  addi 
tional  value  and  interest  to  the  specimens  of  his  pulpit  efforts 
which  we  now  present. 


DIGNITY,  DESTINY,  AND  DANGER  OF  THE  SOUL, 


What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  own  soul  ?  What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ? — 
Mark  viii.  36,  37. 

THIS  interrogation  of  Christ  involves  topics  of  a 
deeply  impressive  interest.  The  value  of  that  soul, 
which  can  be  contrasted  with  the  whole  world,  must 
be  of  inconceivable  magnitude.  Though  we  may  not 
be  able  to  fathom  the  depths  of  this  subject,  yet  we 
can  sketch  some  of  its  more  prominent  features,  and 
penetrate  it  sufficiently  to  understand  the  awful  im 
port  of  the  question  presented  in  our  text — "  What 
shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  "What  shall  a  man  give  in 
exchange  for  his  soul  ?" 

The  value  of  the  soul  is  partially  developed  in  the 
extent  of  its  powers.  Here  is  an  intellect  that  can 
grasp  the  mighty  question,  hold  it  steady  and  strong 
before  its  penetrating  eye,  unravel  its  intricacies, 
search  through  all  its  parts,  measure  its  proportions, 
calculate  its  effects,  and  exult  in  its  luminous  con 
clusion.  Here  is  an  intellect  that  can  penetrate  the 


300  THE   REACH   OF   ITS   POWERS. 

subtle  sciences,  render  itself  familiar  with  the  deep 
and  difficult  objects  of  knowledge,  establish  trembling 
truth,  overthrow  inveterate  error,  eject  old  opinions, 
introduce  new  ones,  conquer  prejudice,  secure  confi 
dence,  and  bind  the  faith  of  men  to  unwelcome  ob 
jects.  Here  is  an  intellect  that  can  sway  human 
conduct,  kindle  the  brightest  hopes,  awaken  the 
darkest  fears,  stir  the  strongest  passions,  rouse  the 
mightiest  energies,  move  a  whole  nation  as  by  one 
impulse,  and  thus  accomplish  what  may  exhaust  the 
strength  of  millions, 

Here  is  a  memory  that  treasures  up  each  new 
discovery,  each  fresh  experience, — embalming  them, 
binding  them  together,  rendering  our  existence  a 
continuous  chain,  bringing  back  upon  us  in  age  the 
freshness  of  youth,  restoring  to  us  the  joyous  feelings, 
the  happy  incidents,  the  ardent  friendships,  the  ro 
mantic  devotions  of  our  earlier  years,  supplying  us 
in  our  desolate  hours  with  themes  of  thought,  bring 
ing  before  us  vanished  objects,  and  beguiling  us  of 
present  loneliness  and  sorrow  by  ten  thousand  recol 
lections  in  which  the  past  still  lives  in  all  its  original 
beauty  and  freshness. 

Here,  too,  is  an  imagination  impatient  of  the  earth, 
spurning  each  grovelling  sphere,  full  of  lofty  aspira 
tion  and  daring  curiosity ;  it  renders  itself  familiar 
with  all  that  is  wild,  and  beautiful,  and  sublime  in 
nature ;  it  visits  the  sunny  vale  and  the  thunder- 
scarred  cliff,  the  bleating  field  and  the  howling  wilder- 


THE   KANGE    OF   ITS   AFFECTIONS.  301 

ness,  the  quiet  spring  and  the  tempest-stricken  ocean, 
the  populous  city  and  the  trackless  desert,  the  ray- 
less  cavern  and  the  glittering  heaven.  It  walks  with 
the  living,  it  communes  with  the  dead ;  rides  upon 
the  tempest,  and  is  familiar  with  the  lightning ;  looks 
beyond  all  that  is  real,  creates  other  worlds,  peoples 
them,  sends  through  them  the  voice  of  health  and 
gladness,  the  shout  of  rivers,  the  roar  of  ocean,  the 
solemn  anthem  of  a  mighty  creation  kindled  into  the 
love  and  worship  of  the  superior,  all-presiding  Intel 
ligence. 

Here,  too,  are  affections  which  bind  us  by  a  chain  of 
sympathy  not  only  to  real,  but  to  imaginary  objects. 
We  smile  in  the  hall  of  festivity,  and  weep  at  the 
couch  of  pain  ;  we  talk  lightly  in  the  social  circle, 
and  tremble  at  the  grave  of  the  stranger.  "We  hang 
delighted  over  the  cradle  of  infant  life,  and  linger 
around  age  for  its  last  lesson.  We  follow  the  joyful 
youth  to  the  nuptial  altar,  and  the  weeping  captive 
to  his  dungeon  and  his  chains.  We  shout  the  patriot 
victor  to  the  rich  harvest  of  his  triumphs,  and  wail 
with  indignant  sorrow  over  the  rack  of  the  holy 
martyr.  We  go  beyond  reality,  and  spread  our  affec 
tions  and  sympathies  over  ideal  existences.  The 
loveliness  with  which  poetical  rhapsody  invests  its 
favorite  character,  kindles  the  deepest  feelings  of  our 
hearts,  and  makes  us  sigh  to  gaze  on  this  vision  of  a 
romantic  dream.  The  virtue,  the  suffering,  the  pa 
tience  in  which  the  melancholy  mind  embodies  its 


302  IMMORTALITY    ITS   CROWNING   GEM. 

feelings,  extorts  our  warmest  tears,  and  chains  us  up 
to  fictitious  sorrow,  as  if  we  were  bending  over  the 
couch  where  mortal  sufferance  exchanges  earth  for 
heaven. 

The  majestic  elevation  which  a  lofty  soul  gives  to 
its  master-creation,  imposes  a  veneration  upon  us 
such  as  would  become  humanity  in  the  presence  of 
an  angel.  "We  move  around  among  these  ideal  ob 
jects,  admiring,  weeping,  trembling,  exulting,  with 
as  much  intensity  as  if  they  were  the  living  substance 
of  our  nature.  These  are  a  portion  of  the  properties 
inherent  in  the  human  soul.  An  intellect  of  all- 
grasping  and  all-subduing  energy,  an  imagination  of 
tireless  and  limitless  power  and  curiosity;  a  memory 
vigilant  and  faithful  to  the  countless  objects  of  its 
trust ;  sympathies  and  affections  which  spread  them 
selves  in  a  radiant  mantle  through  the  universe. 

But  were  the  soul,  with  all  its  transcendent  powers, 
destined  to  corruption  in  the  grave,  we  should  regard 
it  only  as  the  passing  vision  of  a  majestic  dream. 
"We  might  sigh  that  aught  so  glorious  should  be  so 
frail,  and  even  supplicate  inexorable  sovereignty  for 
a  longer  date.  But  though  the  soul  inhabits  a  house 
of  clay,  the  tenant  survives  its  tabernacle,  and  will 
flourish  vigorous  and  young  when  its  dwelling  is 
formless  dust.  Yes,  the  stars  may  fall,  the  sun  ex 
pire,  the  heavens  be  palled  in  endless  night,  but  the 
soul  shall  emerge  from  this  vast  tomb  radiant  in  the 
immortal  image  of  its  Maker.  This  imperishable 


VASTNESS    OF   ITS   ETERNAL    DESTINY.  303 

property  of  the  soul — its  immortality — gives  it  a  value 
that  outweighs  ten  thousand  worlds.  "Who  can  tell 
what  it  may  experience,  what  it  may  enjoy,  what 
heights  of  knowledge  it  may  attain,  what  depths  of 
wisdom  it  may  penetrate,  when  this  glorious  universe 
is  a  rayless  wreck ! 

There  is  something  in  the  idea  of  eternal  duration 
and  an  endless  progression  of  improvement  which 
fills  the  mind  with  amazement,  and  overpowers  the 
giant  thought  that  struggles  to  comprehend  it.  The 
conception  stands  before  us  like  some  stupendous 
mountain,  swelling  into  the  heavens,  and  becoming, 
as  we  approach  it,  measureless  and  illimitable  in  all 
its  proportions.  We  gaze,  tremble,  and  sink  into  the 
dust!  What  arm  shall  raise  us?  what  Almighty 
power  come  to  our  aid  ?  Stand  up,  thou  amazed,  fal 
tering  spirit,  it  is  thy  destiny !  Though  man  cannot 
adequately  comprehend  it,  nor  ocean  with  her  ten 
thousand  voices  of  living  thunder  express  it,  yet  it  is 
thy  destiny ! 

"We  can  conceive  of  numbers  upon  numbers  till  we 
have  told  the  stars,  counted  the  leaves  upon  the 
forest  tops,  and  calculated  the  sands  that  spread  the 
shore  of  ocean,  but  thy  years,  oh  eternity !  thy  dura 
tion,  thou  immortal  spirit,  has  only  begun  where  our 
last  numbers  end  !  We  only  penetrate  the  surface  of 
this  fathomless  theme.  We  see  only  the  first  link  of 
an  endless  chain.  We  catch  a  glimpse  only  of  that 
great  future  where  space  and  splendor  vie  in  the 


304:  ITS    CAPACITY    FOR   IMPROVEMENT. 

prodigality  of  their  gifts.  But  we  discover  enough 
to  convince  us  that  its  immortality  is  the  crowning 
gem  in  the  coronet  of  the  soul.  This  is  its  throne, 
sceptre,  and  diadem  of  dominion.  Without  it,  in 
stinctive  nature  might  almost  sport  with  its  preten 
sions  ;  with  it,  angels  would  scarcely  stoop  to  envy, 
such  is  now  the  dignity,  destiny,  and  worth  of  the 
soul. 

If  the  human  intellect,  with  all  the  clogs  and  re 
straints  upon  it  incident  to  its  connection  with  the 
body,  is  capable  of  the  prodigious  improvement  in 
knowledge  we  observe  here,  what  may  not  be  ex 
pected  when  these  obstructions  are  removed — when, 
passionless  and  pure,  above  prejudice,  debility,  ex 
haustion,  it  applies  its  powers  to  subjects  which  the 
highest  intelligences  in  heaven  ponder  with  intense 
interest !  How  may  it  not  ascend  from  theme  to 
theme,  from  one  sublime  truth  to  another,  in  a  glori 
ous  endless  climax ! 

And  the  memory,  if  with  the  effacing  agencies 
which  exist  here  it  can  still  retain  the  traces  of  pass 
ing  events,  how  will  its  mental  tablature  kindle  into 
characters  of  clearest  significance,  when  the  search 
ing  light  of  heaven  plays  upon  its  imperishable  form  I 
Here,  like  a  troubled  pool,  it  reflects  only  the  flowers 
that  bloom  upon  its  brink ;  there,  like  a  tranquil  lake 
spread  wide  and  clear  beneath  ineffable  splendors,  it 
will  mirror  forth  its  unfading  resemblances. 

And  the  imagination,  if  it  can  wing  the  heaven 


ITS   FUTURE   EMPLOYMENTS.  305 

and  tempt  the  uncreated  here,  how  will  it  exult  when 
this  mortal  weight  is  laid  aside,  and  when  it  is  "braced 
bj  a  pinion  that  can  never  grow  weary !  How  will  it 
range  the  dread  magnificence  of  that  heavenly  region, 
where  all  the  loveliness  and  grandeur  of  the  universe 
is  expressed  !  How  will  it  wander  back  to  the  ruins 
of  this  world,  and  extort  from  every  faded  fragment 
some  recollections  deeply  interesting  to  its  celestial 
companions !  How  will  it  wander  down  the  track  of 
man's  redemption,  weeping,  wondering,  and  wor 
shipping  along  this  highest  achievement  of  the  Al 
mighty  ! 

And  the  affections  and  sympathies  of  the  soul,  if 
they  can  spread  themselves  through  the  heavy  at 
mosphere  which  weighs  upon  all  things  here,  how 
will  they  wander,  kindle,  and  expand  in  that  world 
where  all  is  buoyancy,  light,  life,  health,  and  holy 
transport !  How  will  they  circulate  among  that  con 
genial,  countless  multitude  that  have  been  redeemed 
out  of  every  kingdom,  and  clime,  and  tongue  under 
heaven !  How  will  they  mingle  in  that  universal 
chorus,  that  like  the  sound  of  many  waters,,  shall 
pour  in  a  tide  of  ceaseless  harmony  down  the  lapse 
of  eternity ! 

"What  a  glorious  vision  of  intelligence,  creative 
power,  and  boundless  enjoyment  does  the  ransomed 
spirit  present ; — all  mental  darkness,  depression,  and 
satiety  removed!  God  alone  can  tell  its  elevation 
and  bliss.  Well  might  our  Saviour  exclaim,  "  What 


300         MEASUREMENT  OF  ITS  VALUE. 

shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world, 
and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  What  shall  a  man  give  in 
exchange  for  his  soul  ?"  If  language  can  have  mean 
ing,  this  is  full  of  it.  It  not  only  embodies  the  im 
port  of  every  deduction  of  enlightened  philosophy, 
of  every  revelation  of  deepest  interest  from  Jehovah, 
but  it  is  sustained  by  sacrifices  and  sufferings  in 
which  the  Son  of  God  himself  expires.  If  the  faith 
of  the  martyr  inspires  us  with  confidence  from  his 
steadfastness  amid  persecutions,  what  shall  we  say  of 
His  declarations,  whose  words  are  oracles  written  in 
his  own  blood!  "What  shall  we  say  to  His  assev 
erations  who  appeals  to  his  own  omniscience  for 
his  authority,  and  to  his  dying  agonies  for  his  sin 
cerity  ! 

It  is  not  the  profound  opinion  of  a  deeply  medita 
tive  philosopher ;  it  is  not  the  solemn  conviction  of 
a  mitred  priest ;  nor  is  it  the  awful  disclosures  of 
an  inspired  prophet,  that  here  arrest  our  attention. 
It  is  the  word  of  the  King  of  kings,  the  Lord  of  lords, 
Christ  our  Almighty  Redeemer,  expressed  in  his  own 
person,  and  under  circumstances  impressive  enough 
to  wake  the  dead  :  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he 
shall  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ? — 
what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ? 
Had  this  language  been  uttered  in  heaven,  and  rolled 
down  in  thunder  upon  this  earth,  it  would  not  have 
the  power  which  it  now  has,  coming  as  it  does  from 
the  lips  of  Him  who  has  sealed  its  tremendous  pur- 


WHAT   HAS   BEEN   DONE   FOE   IT.  307 


port  by  anxieties,  sacrifices,  and  sufferings  unparal 
leled  in  the  records  of  humanity. 

Had  our  Saviour  commissioned  an  angel  to  im 
press  upon  the  inhabitants  of  this  world  a  sense  of 
the  soul's  value,  had  he  delegated  the  highest  seraph 
to  bleed  and  die  in  attestation  of  his  divine  commis 
sion,  it  were  all  insignificant,  compared  with  what 
has  actually  transpired  on  Calvary.  It  is  Deity 
stooping  to  a  human  form,  subjecting  himself  to  the 
infirmities  of  our  nature,  enduring  sorrows,  encoun 
tering  ingratitude  and  persecution,  warning  and  ex 
horting  inconsiderate  man,  weeping  over  his  obsti 
nacy  and  blindness,  kneeling  in  the  Garden  of  Geth- 
semane,  wearing  a  crown  of  thorns,  fainting  up  the 
height  of  Calvary,  hanging  on  the  cross,  bleeding 
and  dying  for  man, — it  is  Deity  in  these  attitudes 
that  impresses  us  with  a  sense  of  the  soul's  high  val 
ue.  How  inconceivable,  then,  must  be  the  worth  of 
that  object  which  could  induce  such  humiliation  and 
suffering  on  the  part  of  the  Son  of  God ! 

Man  may  lay  down  his  life  for  the  accomplish 
ment  of  a  benevolent  purpose,  and  it  may  still  be  a 
question  whether  the  object  were  worthy  of  the  sac 
rifice  ;  but  he  who  had  created  the  soul  knew  the 
extent  of  its  powers  and  capacities,  what  it  might 
suffer,  what  it  might  enjoy ;  and  it  was  this  knowl 
edge,  united  with  a  compassion  of  exhaustless  depths, 
that  brought  the  Sovereign  of  life  into  the  manger 
of  Bethlehem,  and  laid  him  a  mangled  martyr  in  the 


308  ITS    DEADNESS    TO   REDEEMING   LOVE. 

grave.  And  he  that  cannot  perceive,  in  the  sacri 
fices  and  sufferings  of  his  dying  Redeemer,  evidence 
of  the  soul's  value  which  no  language  can  express, 
must  be  dead  to  the  strongest  conclusions  of  human 
reason,  and  to  the  common  sympathies  of  our  nature. 
The  very  rocks  might  reproach  his  apathy,  and  the 
madness  of  hell  were  sanity  in  contrast  with  his. 

And  yet,  to  the  astonishment  of  devils,  there  is 
scarce  a  tale  of  fabulous  distress  or  imaginary  sor 
row,  that  will  not  awaken  a  stronger  sympathy  in  the 
breast  of  many,  than  this  story  of  redeeming  love ! 
They  turn  away  from  this  heart-melting  reality,  and 
shed  their  tears  over  the  morbid  pages  of  a  sickly 
dream.  When  we  attempt  to  impress  the  value  of 
the  soul  by  considerations  connected  with  the  suffer 
ings  of  Christ,  we  make  as  little  impression  as  shad 
ows  cast  upon  marble.  The  reason  of  this  is  found 
in  their  aversions  to  the  theme.  "Would  they  but  fol 
low  our  Saviour  through  Jerusalem,  would  they  but 
pore  over  his  character  with  that  steadfastness  of  at 
tention,  which  they  bestow  upon  the  hero  of  a  bewil 
dering  fiction,  their  hearts  must  melt  into  sorrow  and 
veneration.  If  not,  the  dead  were  only  one  remove 
from  them  in  coldness  and  insensibility. 

But  we  turn  from  this  melancholy  topic  of  man's 
insensibility  to  a  consideration  of  his  danger.  The 
soul  is  in  imminent  danger  of  being  lost !  Though 
of  such  transcendent  value,  that  the  whole  world 
dwindles  in  the  comparison,  yet  it  is  in  fearful  j 


ITS    ENSLAVEMENT   TO   SIN.  309 

ardy  of  ruin.  In  its  natural  state,  the  soul  is  unfit 
for  heaven,  and  its  salvation  can  only  be  the  result 
of  the  sovereign  grace  of  God,  united  with  the  most 
intense  and  laborious  warfare  on  the  part  of  man. 
Even  a  resolution  on  the  subject  of  personal  religion 
is  not  the  easiest  purpose  of  an  individual,  but  the 
carrying  of  that  resolution  into  effect  will  leave  no 
faculty  unexhausted. 

No  man  who  has  not  vigorously  attempted  the 
great  work  of  his  soul's  salvation,  has  any  adequate 
conception  of  the  difficulties  with  which  he  must  con 
tend.  Could  he  be  left  alone  to  this  work,  could  the 
restraints  of  the  world  for  once  be  removed,  the  last 
retarding  influence  suspended,  he  would,  neverthe- 
less,  falter  and  faint  in  the  overcoming  task.  But  he 
will  not  be  left  alone.  The  world  has  a  strong  at 
tachment  for  him  :  it  is  at  enmity  with  God,  at  va 
riance  with  the  high  interests  of  the  soul,  and  will 
endeavor  to  counteract  every  effort  he  may  make  to 
alienate  himself. 

This  conflict  with  the  world  is  the  first  obstacle 
with  which  the  awakened  sinner  has  to  contend ;  and 
it  is  so  formidable,  that  thousands,  after  a  few  unsuc 
cessful  efforts,  resign  themselves  to  the  calamity  of 
their  condition.  They  are  the  slaves  of  the  world, 
of  its  opinions,  forms,  maxims,  pursuits.  A  more 
subduing,  crushing  vassalage  never  existed.  It 
weighs  upon  every  faculty  of  the  man.  Thousands, 
having  caught  some  indistinct  glimpses  of  the  free- 


310  THE    DIFFICULTY   OF   ITS   DELIVERANCE. 

dom  of  the  sons  of  God,  resolve  to  possess  it, — strug 
gle,  feel  the  weight  of  their  chains,  and  expire. 

But  suppose  this  first  mighty  step  to  be  taken: 
suppose  the  sinner  has  got  clear  of  the  world  ;  that 
he  is  at  liberty  to  devote  his  entire  powers,  as  con 
science  and  reason  may  dictate ;  and  suppose  he  does 
consecrate  all  his  faculties  to  the  work  of  saving  his 
soul — he  will,  nevertheless,  reel  beneath  the  magni 
tude  of  the  undertaking.  He  has  got  to  recall  his 
past  life,  to  go  back  in  his  memory  through  the  pain 
ful  recollection  of  his  misdeeds,  and  break  the  im 
penetrable  shield  in  which  sin  has  incased  his  heart ; 
he  must  go  down  into  its  sickly  depths,  wind  through 
its  dark  labyrinths ;  bring  forth  every  lurking  failing, 
every  wicked  disposition ;  expose  them  to  the  light 
of  heaven,  and  put  them  to  death  beneath  the  Cross. 

This  work  itself  is  enough  to  shake  the  firmest 
purpose.  It  never  would  be  accomplished,  nor  even 
attempted,  did  not  the  consequences  of  a  failure  in 
volve  eternal  misery.  Were  there  any  alternative 
left  the  sinner  but  heaven  or  hell,  he  would  never 
become  a  follower  of  the  meek  and  lowly  Jesus.  As 
it  is,  he  will  slumber  on  till  his  salvation  is  a  mir 
acle.  Multitudes  are  never  roused  till  the  flames  of 
the  bottomless  pit  receive  them.  They  dream  away 
life  under  the  visionary  hope  of  awaking  in  heaven, 
as  if  salvation  were  their  rightful  inheritance.  They 
are  as  much  at  ease  as  if  they  expected  to  glide 
as  gently  into  the  Christian  character  as  a  tranquil 


THE  FEARFULNESS   OF  ITS  STUPIDITY.  311 

stream  floats  to  its  silent  bourne,  or  as  a  star  moves 
through  the  different  stages  of  its  serene  ascension  in 
the  heaven. 

To  alarm  these  men,  to  make  them  feel  their  dan 
ger,  and  to  rouse  them  to  action,  is  beyond  the  power 
of  human  effort.  Unassisted  by  divine  energy,  you 
would  as  soon  invest  the  tenant  of  the  shroud  with 
the  attributes  of  life.  Could  you  condense  into  one 
sentence  every  startling  sound  and  sentiment  in  the 
universe,  and  pour  it  in  a  rending  cadence  upon  the 
hearing  of  the  stupid  sinner,  he  would  still  slumber 
on  in  the  depths  of  his  untrembling  repose.  Such  is 
the  palsying  apathy  which  sin  spreads  over  the  sen 
sibilities  of  our  moral  nature. 

The  source  of  this  stupidity  is  found  in  the  wilful 
ignorance  of  the  sinner.  He  courts  a  voluntary 
blindness  to  his  true  character.  Let  him  but  see  his 
heart  as  God  sees  it,  and  as  he  will  see  it  in  the  day 
of  his  last  account,  and  he  would  loathe  and  abhor 
himself :  his  self-complacency  would  dissolve  in  tears 
and  shame.  But  he  blinds  his  eyes  to  this  loath 
some  spectacle  ;  or  he  throws  around  it  the  illusive 
coloring  of  his  fancy.  He  will  not  examine  it ;  he 
will  not  probe  its  ulcers.  He  prates  of  its  soundness 
when  it  is  diseased  to  its  inmost  sense ;  he  talks  of 
life  in  the  midst  of  death,  and  feels  secure  of  heaven 
on  the  brink  of  perdition ! 

You  perhaps  see  the  peril  of  his  situation  ;  you  de 
termine  that  he  must  and  shall  be  aroused  from  his 


312  ITS   POWEKS    Off   RESISTANCE. 

false  security;  you  repeat  in  his  hearing  all  the 
alarming  declarations  of  Scripture ;  you  apply  the 
high  and  holy  requisitions  of  the  divine  law  to  his 
heart ;  you  show  him  in  the  light  of  revelation  this 
body  of  sm  and  death  ;  you  point  him  to  that  fount, 
ain  which  cleanseth  from  sin,  to  that  Spirit  which 
helpeth  our  infirmities,  to  that  Saviour  before  whom 
the  humble  and  contrite  never  weep  and  tremble  in 
vain  ;  you  show  him  the  brevity  and  uncertainty  of 
life,  the  magnitude  of  the  work  before  him,  the  mo 
mentous  consequences  that  are  pending, — and  you 
beseech  him  by  all  that  is  dear  to  himself,  by  all  that 
is  due  to  his  Maker,  to  immediate,  strenuous,  deci 
sive  action.  But  your  admonitions  and  appeals  have 
as  little  effect  upon  his  listless  senses,  as  whispers  on 
the  ear  of  the  dreamer. 

This  impenetrable  apathy  is  not  confined  to  a  few 
darkly  conspicuous  for  their  hardihood,  but  it  spreads 
itself  over  all  who  have  not  received  Christ  in  the 
meekness  of  a  broken,  contrite  spirit.  It  settles 
down  on  every  sinner  in  this  assembly,  stifling  every 
ray  that  would  divinely  illuminate  the  heart,  and 
blasting  in  the  bud  every  sentiment  of  a  holier  and 
sublimer  nature.  It  nullifies  the  most  powerful  ex 
hibitions  of  Gospel  truth ;  prevents  the  access  of  the 
hovering,  quickening  Spirit ;  blinds  its  possessor  to 
the  certainty  of  his  destruction ;  wraps  the  conscience 
in  the  torpors  of  moral  death  ^  and  becomes,  as  it 
deepens,  the  grave  of  the  soul  I 


THE   GREATNESS   OF   ITS   DANGER.  318 

Say,  then,  is  not  this  soul  in  danger  ?  What  voice 
can  rouse  it  from  its  fatal  slumber?  What  power 
recall  it  from  its  untimely  grave?  When  will  it 
come  forth  to  the  light  of  heaven,  and  to  the  quick 
ening  beams  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  ?  When 
will  it  be  able  to  stand  erect  in  renovated  life  and 
imperishable  beauty  ?  How  shall  it  gather  to  itself 
this  better  purpose,  nourish  it  into  energy,  and  sus 
tain  it  unshaken  to  the  last?  How  shall  it  look 
steadily  at  its  own  pollutions ;  its  utter  unfitness  for 
heaven ;  its  peril  in  this  state  of  alienation  from 
Christ  ?  How  shall  it  break  up  its  connections  with 
the  world,  part  with  its  earthly  possessions,  renounce 
its  cherished  friendships,  abandon  its  idol  gods, 
feel  its  helplessness  and  ruin,  loathe  itself,  abhor  its 
past  life,  and,  renouncing  every  other  refuge,  every 
other  hope,  betake  itself  to  the  humbling  provisions 
of  the  Gospel — to  the  Cross  of  Christ — and  there, 
with  penitence,  contrition,  and  shame,  weep  over  its 
guilt  and  degradation? 

Oh,  ye  who  trifle  with  the  warnings  of  inspiration, 
and  sport  with  the  anxieties  of  the  awakened  sinner  ! 
your  levity  is  amid  the  graves  of  thousands — it  is  ech 
oed  from  each  coffin's  lid !  You  presume  where  others 
perished,  and  are  gay  where  others  despaired !  You 
are  full  of  presumption  and  reckless  mirth,  where  all 
your  predecessors  have  left  the  bleeding  fragments  of 
their  best  hopes ! — you  are  as  one  that  sleeps  at  mast 
head,  or  slumbers  on  the  plunging  verge  of  the  cataract ! 

14 


314:  THE   RUIN   OF   THE   SOUL   TOTAL. 

The  destruction  of  which  the  soul  is  in  danger  is 
total — extending  to  all  its  powers  and  capacities. 
Were  all  its  other  faculties  at  an  immense  remove 
from  the  pit  of  perdition,  and  the  imagination  only 
doomed  to  hover  around  this  place  of  unalleviated 
suffering,  with  what  representations  of  sorrow  would 
it  confound  the  peace  of  the  soul !  The  sight  of  an 
execution  will  live  long  and  frightfully  in  the  mind 
of  the  spectator.  He  still  sees  the  miserable  victim 
of  justice  suspended  from  the  scaffold,  and  still  hears 
his  coffin  rumble  down  the  untimely  grave.  If  the 
violent  extinction  of  animal  life  will  so  haunt  and 
distress  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  what  would  those 
sighs,  and  groans,  and  unavailing  lamentations  do 
which  crowd  the  world  of  woe !  Even  in  such  a 
situation,  the  soul  must  be  inconceivably  miserable. 

"What,  then,  must  be  its  anguish  when  itself  be 
comes  the  sufferer !  —  when  the  spectator  becomes 
the  victim ! — when  all  these  appalling  representations 
of  agony  pour  in  endless  reality  through  its  every 
sense ! — when  every  capacity  is  full  and  overflowing 
with  unmingled  Sorrow  ! — when  every  effort  at  relief 
ends  in  a  gasping  sense  of  utter  helplessness  ! — when 
every  recollection  only  deepens  its  distress, — every 
anticipation  only  strengthens  its  despair, — and  every 
sensation  only  brings  with  it  a  crushing  consciousness 
of  utter  ruin ! 

The  intellect  which  could  here  find  an  escape 
from  adversity  in  the  conclusions  of  its  calm  phil«>- 


ITS    AGONY   AND   DESPAIR   ETERNAL.  315 

ophy,  will  there  find,  in  every  reflection,  an  exhaust- 
less  source  of  anguish ;  the  memory  which  could 
here  brighten  the  present  with  reflections  from  the 
past,  will  there  restore  only  sources  of  remorse ;  the 
imagination  which  here  would  promise  what  might 
never  be  enjoyed,  may  there,  in  its  horror,  predict 
what  can  never  be  endured ;  the  affections  which 
could  here  twine  themselves  around  other  and  hap 
pier  beings,  and  thus  participate  in  pleasures  not  its 
own,  will  there  turn  to  hate,  and  pour  into  the  deso 
late  soul  the  bitterness  of  unavenged  malice ;  con- 
science,  which  could  here  be  stifled  into  silence,  will 
there  speak  so  that  all  hell  shall  hear — its  reproaches 
will  awaken  the  deepest  pangs  which  Infinite  dis 
pleasure  can  decree,  or  a  deathless  spirit  survive ! 

The  ruined  soul  will,  therefore,  find  within  itself 
no  one  unbroken  faculty  upon  which  it  can  repose, — 
no  less  subdued,  less  agonized  sense  upon  which  it 
can  lean.  Every  refuge  is  only  an  escape  to  fresher 
anguish  and  more  poignant  despair :  and  it  has  no 
resource  from  without.  There  is  no  being  in  the 
universe  upon  whom  it  can  call  for  aid, — no  object 
upon  which  its  wandering  thoughts  can  rest, — no 
spot  endeared  by  recollection,  where  it  can  partially 
wean  itself  from  present  suffering.  The  world  where 
it  once  dwelt  is  changed, — its  busy  myriads  are 
gone, — its  palaces  and  towers  are  in  the  dust. — and 
the  knell  of  time  alone  is  heard  through  its  lifeless 
desolations.  All  is  as  one  empty  grave !  The  soul  is 


316        HOPE    NEVER   COMES   THAT   COMES    TO    ALL. 

thus  left  to  its  own  unspoken,  unpitied  misery — 
abandoned  of  all  sympathetic  beings — and  impas 
sably  confined  within  the  burning  circle  of  its 
quenchless  agony! 

The  scorpion,  begirt  by  flame,  can  destroy  itself; 
but  this  self-destructive  power  is  not  a  property  of 
the  soul.  Essentially  immortal,  it  will,  and  must 
survive,  though  it  survives  only  to  pant  for  death. 
The  destruction  of  the  soul  is,  therefore,  not  only 
total,  extending  to  all  its  powers  and  capacities,  but 
it  is  eternal.  This  is  the  darkest  and  wildest  feature 
in  its  doom.  It  might,  perhaps,  brace  itself  to  the 
wrenching  tortures  of  its  rack,  had  it  but  the  most 
distant  prospect  of  relief :  it  might  still,  perhaps,  en 
dure  its  sufferings,  could  they  but  cease  when  as 
many  centuries  have  elapsed  as  there  are  particles 
that  compose  this  globe.  It  might  then  watch  in  its 
pangs  for  the  numbering  of  the  last,  lingering  sand  ; 
but  there  is  no  such  reprieve,  even  in  the  furtherest 
future.  This  globe  might  waste  away,  though  but 
one  particle  were  to  perish  in  a  thousand  centuries, 
yet  the  lost  soul  would  even  then  be  but  in  the  in 
fancy  of  its  woe ! 

Were  the  duration  of  its  suffering  concealed  from 
the  condemned  spirit,  it  might  cherish  a  deceptive 
belief  of  final  deliverance,  and  it  might  find  in  this 
vague  hope  some  motive  to  resolution,  some  antidote 
to  despair.  The  mariner,  cast  upon  a  desolate  rock 
in  the  ocean,  realizes  less  the  true  horrors  of  his 


31T 


situation  from  the  cherished  possibility  of  a  friendly 
sail :  but  no  such  beguiling  possibility  of  relief  comes 
to  the  wrecked  soul  in  hell.  There  are  no  flattering 
delusions  mingled  with  the  terrors  of  the  second 
death.  The  lost  soul  is  smitten  at  once  with  hope 
less  and  endless  despair !  Not  even  the  prospect  of 
annihilation  relieves  the  agony  of  its  irreprievable 
doom.  Its  guilt  and  shame,  remorse  and  woe,  have 
passed  under  the  awful  seal  of  eternity.  The  dead 
may  wake  from  their  graves,  corruption  start  into 
life ;  but  that  seal  will  never — no,  never  be  broken ! 

Why,  alas  !  is  all  this  shame,  remorse,  and  despair 
to  be  endured  ?  "Why  is  it  that  this  soul,  endowed 
with  faculties  which  might  fit  it  to  range  all  the 
magnificence  of  heaven,  and  enjoy  the  companion 
ship  of  God  and  angels,  is  thus  to  be  brought  down 
a  bleeding,  burning  wreck  into  hell  ?  What  is  the 
price  at  which  man  thus  parts  with  the  birth/right  of 
his  soul  ? — what  is  the  strength  of  that  bribe  for 
which  he  thus  sells  his  immortal  peace  and  happi 
ness? 

One  would  think  the  temptation  must  be  so  strong 
as  not  to  be  within  the  power  of  human  nature  to 
be  resisted.  But  no ;  it  is  a  little  pleasure,  which 
cloys  and  disgusts  as  soon  as  embraced  ;  it  is  a  little 
honor  which  a  breath  hath  made,  and  a  breath  can 
destroy  ;  it  is  a  little  wealth  which  will  scarcely  suf 
fice  to  gild  the  coffin  and  shroud!  These — these 
are  the  trifles  for  which  man  parts  with  God  and 


318        INCONSISTENCY   OF  CONDUCT  WITH   CREED. 

glory ! — these  are  the  worthless  baubles  for  which  he 
barters  away  his  everlasting  life  and  blessedness ! 
"Where,  my  God,  is  that  reason  with  which  man  was 
originally  endowed  ? — was  it  not  lost  amid  the  ruins 
of  the  fall? 

Self-conceited  mortal,  stand  forth  and  vindicate 
your  boasted  prerogative, — show  us  in  what  be  your 
claim  to  the  slightest  remnants  of  this  reason.  Do 
you  believe  the  soul  which  you  possess  to  be  immor 
tal, — that  it  shall  survive  the  destruction  of  that 
body, — that  it  shall  witness  the  decay  of  this  earth 
and  these  visible  heavens, — that  it  shall  rise  at  last 
into  a  state  of  exalted  happiness,  or  sink  into  depths 
of  untold  anguish?  Do  you,  in  your  Tieart,  believe 
these  declarations  of  Scripture  and  conscience  ?  And 
with  this  confession  upon  your  lips,  can  you  neg 
lect  and  betray  that  soul  ? — can  you  abandon  it  to  in 
evitable  ruin  ? — can  you  trample  its  godlike  faculties 
into  the  dust,  while  you  are  in  chase  of  the  bubbles 
that  float  on  this  stream  of  time?  Where  is  the 
consistency  between  your  conduct  and  creed  ? — 
where  is  the  evidence  of  sincerity  in  your  professions 
of  belief  ?  Those  convictions  are  worthless  which  do 
not  influence  conduct, — they  are  mere  vagaries  which 
float  through  the  mind,  unaccompanied  by  a  single 
sensation  of  the  heart,  or  action  of  the  hand. 

Of  what  avail  is  your  assent  to  the  value  of  the 
soul,  while  you  are  regardless  of  its  wants  ? — what 
signify  your  convictions  of  its  worth,  while  you  are 


THE   ENDANGERED   SOUL   INVITED   TO   CHRIST.      319 

slumbering  over  its  peril  ?  How  madly  inconsistent 
and  horribly  guilty  you  are  in  acknowledging  its 
heavenly  birthright,  and  then  betraying  it  unto  dev 
ils, — in  recognizing  upon  it  the  immortal  image  of 
its  Maker,  and  then  hurrying  it  into  the  flames  of 
hell !  Oh,  could  the  sufferings  of  spirits  in  the  bot 
tomless  pit  speak  !  could  the  agonies  of  the  damned 
have  utterance,  their  execrations  would  come  up  over 
this  world  in  a  tempest  of  thunder  !  The  terrors  of 
the  earthquake  were  forgotten  in  the  more  frightful 
horrors  that  would  then  visit  the  habitations  of  men. 
Oh,  man  of  sin,  who  art  living  in  this  danger,  thy 
soul  not  saved  !  fly  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  through 
whom  alone  it  is  that  salvation  is  not  an  impossibil 
ity.  He  came  to  seek  and  save  the  lost.  He  came 
for  thee ;  and  from  all  the  terrors  of  the  second  death 
and  the  eternal  ruin  of  thy  soul,  thou  mayest  now  be 
saved,  if  thou  wilt  but  cast  thyself  on  him  with  pen 
itence  and  faith.  Him  that  cometh  to  me  (they  are 
his  own  sweet  words)  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out. 
Take  him  at  his  word,  and  he  will  take  you  to  his 
bosom,  and  will  be  glorified  and  happy  in  your  sal 
vation  forever  and  ever.  Amen. 


THE  SIN  OF  NEGLECTING  OR  DENYING  CHRIST, 


But  whosoever  shall  deny  me  before  men,  him  will  I  also  deny  be 
fore  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven. — Matthew  x.  83. 

RETRIBUTION  usually  travels  fast  on  the  heels  of 
transgression  :  it  even  casts  its  dread  shadow  forward 
of  the  steps  of  guilt,  and  spreads  a  premonitory  dis 
may  over  the  conscience  of  the  sinner.  It  seldom 
fails  to  reach  the  guilty  in  this  life ;  but  when  it  does 
so  fail,  it  is  certain  to  overtake  him  in  the  next.  Our 
text  is  an  illustration  of  this  deferred  retribution.  It 
suspends  execution  here,  but  only  to  open  its  ap 
palling  battery  hereafter. 

Let  us  consider,  first,  the  fact  of  denying  Christ, 
and  what  it  includes ;  second,  the  causes  which  lead 
to  it ;  third,  the  criminality  of  it ;  fourth,  the  conse 
quences. 

I.  To  deny  Christ,  to  disown  him,  or  reject  him, 
are  one  and  the  same  thing.  What,  then,  is  implied 
in  it  ?  Or  when  may  a  man  be  said  to  deny  or  re 
ject  Christ  ?  "What  are  the  sentiments,  and  what  the 
conduct  of  him  to  whom  this  flagrant  criminality 
attaches  ?  That  the  scoffer  and  skeptic  deny  Christ, 
none  can  doubt;  but  can  this  be  predicated  of  one 


WHAT   IT   IS   TO   DENY    CHRIST.  321 

who  subscribes  to  the  reality  of  his  humiliation,  suf 
ferings,  and  death ;  and  to  the  overpowering  import 
ance  of  that  sacrifice  which  he  made  of  himself  on 
the  cross  ? 

To  answer  this  question  aright,  we  must  look  at 
the  object  of  Christ's  mission.  Was  it  merely  an  ex 
hibition  of  divine  compassion  ?  Was  it  a  stupendous 
tragedy  of  love  ?  Was  it  to  atone  for  guilt,  merely  ? 
Or  was  it  to  save  the  guilty  ?  Was  it  to  unbar  the 
prison,  only ;  or  to  bring  the  captive  actually  forth 
to  light  ?  The  purpose  of  Christ  was  the  actual  re 
covery  of  our  race :  not  the  means  of  salvation,  but 
the  salvation  itself.  It  was  not  to  open  an  avenue  of 
escape  from  peril,  but  the  actual  escape  of  those  in 
peril.  It  was  not  to  divide  the  Red  Sea,  but  the 
passage  of  those  through  it,  who  crowded  the  strand. 
It  was  not  to  provide  a  city  of  refuge  merely,  but  that 
all  should  fly  to  it.  The  purpose  of  Christ,  then,  was 
to  save  man. 

]STow  he  who  disregards  this  purpose  in  reference 
to  himself;  who  resists  its  constraining  force,  prac 
tically  rejects  Christ.  He  defeats,  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned,  the  object  of  Christ's  mission  and  death. 
His  belief  in  the  merits  of  the  atonement,  in  the 
universality  of  its  provisions,  can  avail  him  nothing. 
The  question  is,  how  does  he  himself  treat  it  ?  How 
stands  his  own  conduct  in  the  matter  ?  It  is  personal 
action  which  here  stamps  his  character  and  his  creed. 
If  he  withholds  from  Christ  his  own  affections,  he 

14* 


322  ;       WHY    CHRIST   IS    DENIED. 

disowns  him.  If  he  resists  the  purpose  of  Christ  in 
his  own  salvation,  he  rejects  him.  Were  all  others 
to  treat  Christ  as  he  does,  of  what  avail  were  the 
atonement  ?  Christ  would  have  died  in  vain.  There 
would  not  be  a  church  on  earth  to  treasure  his  love ; 
not  a  heart  in  which  his  claims  would  be  enthroned. 
Were  all  like  him,  the  Saviour  would  have  hung  on 
the  cross  without  a  solitary  follower,  near  or  remote. 
He  would  have  lain  in  the  tomb  without  a  heart  to 
throb  at  the  promise  of  his  resurrection.  He  would 
have  ascended  from  Olivet  as  unseen  as  the  solitary 
bird  soars  from  the  depths  of  the  silent  wilderness. 

n.  The  causes  of  rejecting  Christ.  These  lie  in 
the  insensibility,  pride,  and  presumption  of  the  hu 
man  heart.  One  of  the  inevitable  consequences  of 
sin,  is  a  callousness  to  its  enormity.  The  further  one 
advances  in  transgression,  the  more  insensible  he 
becomes  to  his  progress  in  guilt.  It  is  the  very  na 
ture  of  sin  to  blind  the  moral  perceptions  and  harden 
the  heart. 

"  I  wave  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing  ; 
But,  oh  !  it  hardens  a'  within, 
And  petrifies  the  feeling  1" 

This  insensibility  to  guilt  is  the  prime  cause  of  the 
rejection  of  Christ.  Let  a  man  feel  his  sins,  and  he 
will  fly  to  the  Saviour.  Let  him  feel  that  he  is  lost, 
and  he  will  feel  for  the  cross.  He  will  fly  to  that 
refuge  of  mercy  as  a  pursued  roe  to  its  forest  sanctu- 


THE   PREVENTIVE   POWER   OF   PRIDE.  323 

ary.  But  while  insensible  of  his  guilt  and  danger,  he 
will  make  no  effort  to  escape.  You  may  hold  up  the 
absolving  cross,  but  he  will  die  and  make  no  sign. 
There  is  a  slumber  on  his  soul  deeper  than  that  which 
wraps  the  silence  of  the  grave.  The  dead  might  as 
well  be  expected  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  in 
their  coffins,  as  a  sinner,  who  is  not  burdened  with  a 
sense  of  guilt,  to  embrace  Christ. 

His  pride  likewise  comes  in  to  aid  this  result.  It 
inflates  him  with  conceptions  of  the  dignity  and  self- 
relying  powers  of  human  nature ;  and  fills  him  with 
repugnance  to  the  humility  of  a  cross-seeking  peni 
tent.  If  he  must  go  to  the  cross,  he  wishes  to  go 
there  in  state,  as  noblemen  appear  at  court  in  the 
insignia  of  their  rank.  If  his  own  claims  will  not 
carry  him  to  heaven,  still  he  wishes  to  travel  on  their 
force  as  far  as  they  will  carry  him,  and  be  dependent 
on  the  charity  of  the  cross  only  for  the  residue  of  the 
journey. 

Poor,  vain  man  !  his  miserable  vehicle  of  ostenta 
tion  and  pride  will  not  carry  him  a  single  league 
towards  heaven.  His  flowing  robes  of  self-righteous 
ness,  which  he  wraps  around  him  with  the  self-com 
placent  dignity  of  a  dying  Roman,  are  only  filthy 
rags.  He  is  a  Lazarus  in  every  thing  but  the  hu 
mility  which  becomes  his  pinching  poverty.  But 
before  he  will  confess  his  wretchedness,  and  seek  re 
lief  where  alone  it  can  be  found,  his  pride  must  be 
broken.  He  must  feel  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner, 


324  THE    MADNESS    OF   PRESUMPTION. 

with  only  one  plank  left  him,  and  even  that  thrown 
within  his  reach  by  an  all-merciful  Providence. 

His  presumption  also  contributes  to  his  ruin.  He 
persuades  himself  that  the  forbearance  and  pleading 
love  of  Christ  will  still  hold  out.  He  would  make  the 
cross  a  dernier  resort,  a  last  resource,  a  safe  retreat 
when  peril  presses;  a  hiding-place  when  the  hoof 
of  Death's  courser  clangs  on  his  ear.  He  expects 
to  take  refuge  in  it  as  the  Arab  flies  to  the  lee  of 
the  rock  when  the  simoom  sweeps  the  desert.  But 
the  peril  often  comes  too  quick  and  fast.  The  child 
of  the  desert  is  overwhelmed  before  he  can  reach  his 
rock,  and  the  sinner  perishes  even  in  sight  of  the 
cross,  but  without  clinging  to  it.  His  destruction  is 
the  combined  result  of  his  insensibility,  pride,  and 
presumption.  By  reason  of  these  he  lives  without 
Christ,  and  dies  without  hope. 

"Wretched  man!  his  insensibility  cannot  mitigate 
his  guilt ;  his  pride  cannot  protect  him  in  the  grave ; 
his  presumption  can  only  cover  him  with  confusion 
at  the  judgment-bar.  Yet  these  are  his  ruling  pro 
pensities  ;  his  master-spirits ;  the  idols  to  which  he 
kneels  through  life,  only  to  see  them  shivered  in 
death.  Over  their  ruins  his  immortal  spirit  piles  the 
mountain  curse  of  its  despair. 

HI.  The  guilt  of  disowning  Christ.  He  who  re 
jects  Christ  rejects  the  sacrifice  which  he  made  of 
himself  on  the  cross.  He  pours  disdain  on  that  stu 
pendous  exhibition  of  sympathy  and  love.  He  pours 


THE   GUILT   OF   INGRATITUDE   TO    CHRIST.  325 

contempt  on  agonies  which  darkened  the  face  of  na 
ture,  and  broke  up  the  sleep  of  the  grave.  This 
mockery  would  be  sufficiently  impious  were  he  a 
disinterested  person.  But  it  was  for  Mm  that  these 
sufferings  were  endured.  It  was  to  lift  the  curse 
from  his  guilty  soul  that  Christ  underwent  the  shame 
and  ignominy  of  the  cross. 

Ingratitude  is  a  crime.  It  forfeits  all  further  claims 
to  sympathy  and  respect.  The  generous  sacrifices  of 
a  benefactor  are  held  sacred  by  the  common  senti 
ment  of  mankind.  Their  disinterestedness  sanctifies 
them  in  the  minds  of  men.  Now,  man's  greatest 
benefactor,  beyond  all  comparison,  is  Christ.  There 
is  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  benevolence,  to  the 
tragedy  of  the  cross.  There  has  never  been  before, 
nor  since,  such  a  surrender  of  glory  and  bliss,  and 
such  a  submission  to  reproach  and  torture.  Other 
sacrifices  have  appeased  the  displeasure  of  man,  but 
Christ's  sacrifice  appeased  the  wrath — say  rather, 
made  a  way  for  the  love  to  triumph  over  the  wrath  of 
a  holy  and  righteous  God.  Other  sacrifices  have 
reached  the  welfare  of  a  community,  but  Christ's 
embraced  the  hopes  of  a  world.  But  these  hopes, 
these  vast  and  magnificent  results,  and  the  agonies 
out  of  which  they  spring,  are  all  rejected  by  him 
who  rejects  Christ.  He  throws  the  dark  shadow  of 
his  skepticism  between  the  cross  and  the  faith  of  na 
tions.  He  covers  earth  with  an  eclipse  darker  than 
that  of  the  Fall. 


326        THE   INJURY    DONE   IN   DISOWNING   CHRIST. 

If  it  be  a  capital  offence  to  put  out  the  poor  taper 
of  life  in  man,  what  must  be  his  crime  who,  so  far 
as  he  can,  puts  out  the  light  of  life  in  the  world  ?  If 
he  should  endure  the  extreme  penalties  of  the  law 
who  brings  bereavement  into  a  domestic  circle,  what 
should  he  suffer  whose  act  and  example  would  entail 
misery  without  end  on  millions  ?  Such  are  the  vast, 
disastrous  issues  of  that  skeptical  indifference  with 
which  he  regards  the  cross.  He  breaks  down  the 
only  arch  which  spans  the  pit  of  perdition.  Multi 
tudes  fill  its  depths  with  their  groans  who  might  have 
hymned  their  triumphs  on  the  shores  of  life.  Their 
wail  goes  up  like  that  of  a  thousand  cities  sinking  in 
earthquake  convulsions.  The  gulfs  which  echo  their 
despair  will  shake  with  the  thunders  of  their  agony, 
when  the  loud  ocean  is  in  the  sleep  of  death. 

But  the  guilt  of  disowning  Christ  extends  beyond 
a  rejection  of  his  atoning  sacrifice,  and  a  defeat  of 
its  benign  purpose.  It  reaches  the  supreme  majesty 
of  Christ,  and  pours  dishonor  on  the  Divinity  of  his 
claims.  He  stands  before  you,  not  as  a  mortal,  not 
as  a  wonderfully  endowed  prophet,  nor  as  a  glorified 
martyr.  He  is  your  Creator  as  well  as  your  Saviour ; 
your  final  judge  as  well  as  your  Eedeemer.  At  his 
mandate  worlds  rolled  from  chaos  into  light.  His 
breath  poured  over  them  the  bloom  of  verdure,  and 
made  them  instinct  with  life.  It  was  his  hand  that 
drew  aside  the  curtains  of  primeval  night  from  the 
face  of  this  globe.  It  was  his  voice  that  broke  the 


THE   MIGHT   AND   MAJESTY   OF   CHRIST.  327 

silence  which  slumbered  over  its  vales  and  oceans. 
It  was  his  power  that  lifted  it  to  its  orbit.  It  was  his 
finger  that  drew  its  circuit  through  the  heavens.  It 
is  at  his  bar  that  the  countless  dead  are  to  appear. 
In  his  presence  the  highest  intelligences  in  the  uni 
verse  kneel.  The  army  of  prophets,  apostles,  and 
martyrs  cast  their  crowns  at  his  feet ;  while  the  in 
numerable  company  of  the  redeemed  shout,  "  Worthy 
is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  to  receive  power,  and 
riches,  and  wisdom,  and  strength,  and  honor,  and 
glory,  and  blessing." 

And  who  are  you  who  stand  up  amidst  these  hal 
lelujahs  of  saints  and  seraphim,  and  murmur  your 
dissent  ?  Who  are  you  who  put  in  your  sullen  pro 
test,  while  all  heaven  shakes  with  the  swelling  tide 
of  seraphic  harmony  ?  Who  are  you  who  maintain  a 
supercilious  silence  ? — A  being  incapable  of  compre 
hending  even  the  mysteries  of  your  own  existence  ! 
your  very  life  trembling  between  two  worlds,  like  a 
star  between  night  and  day  ! 

It  is  as  if  the  glow-worm  were  to  lift  its  light  to 
the  sun !  It  is  as  if  a  bubble  were  to  break  amid 
the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep !  Go  hide  your  im 
piety  and  insignificance  in  the  grave.  It  will  be 
time  enough  for  you  to  talk  of  your  might,  when  you 
can  keep  off  the  worm  that  comes  to  fret  your  shroud. 
It  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  turn  away  from 
the  light  of  the  cross,  when  you  can  cast  the  first 
glimmering  ray  into  your  coffined  night.  It  will  be 


328     THE  LOVE  REJECTED  IN  THE  SAVIOUR. 

time  enough  for  you  to  talk  of  facing  the  king  of 
terrors,  when  you  can  ward  off  one  of  the  thousand 
shafts  that  fill  his  quiver.  It  will  be  time  enough 
for  you  to  talk  of  lifting  from  yourself  the  curse  of  a 
violated  law,  when  you  have  complied  with  the  least 
of  its  requirements.  Your  rejection  of  Christ  is  an 
exhibition  of  insensibility  and  guilt,  at  which  an 
angel  might  shudder.  "Were  such  a  spectacle  of  im 
piety  never  witnessed  before,  it  would  strike  the 
world  with  a  deeper  terror  than  did  the  fratricidal 
crime  of  Cain. 

This  is  the  more  apparent  when  we  consider  par 
ticularly  the  love  that  is  rejected  in  rejecting  Christ — 
the  Divine  mercy  and  benevolence  that  are  set  at 
naught.  Man  often  undertakes  or  prosecutes  an  en 
terprise  from  which  he  would  shrink,  if  he  knew  the 
privations  and  hardships  which  he  must  undergo  in 
its  achievement.  But  the  benevolent  purpose  of  our 
Saviour,  in  his  mission  to  earth,  derived  no  aid  from 
any  concealment  of  the  trials  and  sufferings  which 
lay  in  the  future.  He  saw  that  very  manger  that 
was  to  cradle  his  infancy ;  the  poor  fishermen  who 
were  to  be  his  companions ;  the  scoffing  hierarchy 
who  would  deride  his  claims ;  the  fickle  multitude 
who  would  forget  the  miracles  wrought  for  their  re 
lief,  and  join  the  persecution.  He  saw  the  garden 
where  he  should  be  betrayed  ;  the  hall  where  he 
should  be  condemned ;  the  hill  where  he  should  be 
crucified;  the  insane  crowd  that  would  insult  hU 


MEEKNESS    AND    ENERGY   OF   CHRIST.  329 

latest  prayer  and  mock  his  dying  agonies  !  All  these 
were  clearly  apprehended,  and  fully  anticipated  from 
the  first.  But  he  was  not  to  be  deterred.  Plis  com 
passionate  purpose  was  fixed,  unalterably  fixed,  and 
tranquil  as  that  self-existent  attribute  in  God,  over 
which  time,  change,  and  death  have  no  power. 

But  this  fidelity  and  inflexible  adherence  to  one 
all-pervading  purpose  was  blended  with  the  utmost 
gentleness  and  meekness  of  disposition.  Our  Saviour 
trenched  upon  no  public  or  private  rights ;  violated 
no  natural  sympathies ;  nor  did  he  ever,  except  by 
the  force  of  evidence,  subject  the  opinion  of  an  indi 
vidual  to  his  own  infallible  decision.  There  was  a 
mildness  and  amiability  in  his  character,  which  threw 
a  softening  aspect  and  deep  attraction  over  its 
amazing  energies. 

When  we  see  him  travelling  through  the  streets  of 
Jerusalem  on  his  mission  of  love, — breathing  only 
the  accents  of  benevolence  and  compassion, — acting 
in  every  capacity  which  philanthropy  could  dictate, 
— carrying  relief  and  consolation  to  the  humblest 
abodes  of  privation  and  sorrow ; — when  we  see  this, 
we  forget  that  force  of  character  which  no  difficulties 
could  repress,  no  opposition  overcome.  We  forget 
that  serene  indestructible  purpose,  which  would  have 
remained  in  the  entireness  of  its  strength,  though  all 
the  fabrics  of  nature  had  sunk  in  ruins.  Never  was 
there  evinced  in  any  other  being  such  mildness  and 
forbearance,  connected  with  such  an  untiring,  resist- 


330  CONSEQUENCES   OF  REJECTING   HIM. 

less  energy  of  character.  Revenge  may  relax  from 
the  intensity  of  its  fell  purpose ;  ambition  be  wearied 
in  the  prolonged  pursuit  of  its  object ;  and  even  the 
strength  of  natural  affection  abate ;  but  the  compas 
sionate  purpose  of  Christ  survives  all  vicissitudes, 
overcomes  all  opposition,  and  is  triumphant  even  in 
the  grave ! 

The  cloud  of  centuries  has  passed  away,  and  faith, 
hope,  and  charity  still  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 
There  hung  the  bleeding  Saviour;  there  sunk  into 
the  stillness  of  death  the  Being  whose  word  spake 
worlds  into  existence,  and  whose  voice  will  yet  wake 
nations  from  their  graves.  They  who  sleep  in  the 
mountains  and  vales,  and  they  whose  resting-place 
is  in  the  caverns  of  the  deep,  will  one  day  hear  his 
summons  and  come  forth.  Immortal  happiness  will 
be  his  who  meets  this  Saviour  as  his  friend,  and  end 
less  despair  his  portion  who  coldly  shuts  him  from 
the  bosom  of  his  confidence  and  love. 

IY.  But  let  us  now  consider,  in  the  fourth  place, 
the  consequences  of  denying  such  a  Saviour —  Who 
soever  shall  deny  me  before  men,  Mm  will  I  also  deny 
before  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven.  The  courtier 
who  has  fallen  into  the  disfavor  of  his  monarch,  has 
been  known  to  end  his  humiliation  in  the  crime  of 
self-destruction.  Even  the  night  of  the  grave  was 
more  tolerable  to  him  than  the  frown  of  offended 
majesty.  If  the  displeasure  of  a  mortal  can  so  un 
nerve  the  soul,  what  must  the  disowning  look  of 


HEAVEN  LOST  IN  NEGLECTESTG   CHRIST.  831 

Christ  do  ?  If  the  discarded  courtier  takes  refuge  in 
the  grave,  what  gulf  of  night  shall  cover  the  disowned 
sinner?  Where  shall  he  go  to  bury  himself  from 
his  guilt  and  ruin?  There  is  for  him  no  escape. 
"Wherever  he  may  fly,  that  disowning  look  of  Christ 
will  pursue.  It  will  flash  in  lightning  from  every 
object  that  meets  his  eye;  it  will  pour  the  death- 
knell  of  his  peace  in  every  sound  that  meets  his  ear. 

But  he  not  only  loses  Christ  as  his  Redeemer,  but 
he  loses  heaven  as  his  home.  Eye  hath  not  seen, 
nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of 
man  to  conceive  what  this  Saviour  has  prepared  for 
them  that  love  him.  But  all  this  is  lost,  lost  at  once, 
and  lost  forever !  You  may  lose  an  estate,  and  sub 
sequent  industry  may  recover  what  previous  profli 
gacy  has  squandered ;  but  the  soul,  once  cheated  out 
of  its  reversion  in  the  skies,  can  never  recover  it, 
though  it  should  seek  it  carefully  and  with  tears. 
That  home  which  Christ  provided  for  it  is  placed 
even  beyond  the  reach  of  its  hopes.  Centuries  of 
exile  may  be  endured,  but  the  celestial  gate  still  re 
mains  barred.  The  flaming  cherubim  that  guard  its 
portal  never  slumber  on  their  watch. 

Where,  then,  shall  the  disowned  of  Christ  go  ? 
Where  take  that  soul  with  all  its  vast  capacities  and 
powers  ?  What  shall  he  do  with  that  intellect  of  all- 
grasping  and  subjecting  energy? — what  with  that 
imagination  of  boundless  power  and  curiosity?— 
what  with  that  memory  faithful  to  the  countless  ob- 


WRECK   OF   THE   SOUL   LEFT   OF   CHRIST. 

jects  of  its  trust  ? — what  with  those  sympathies  which 
spread  themselves  through  the  moral  universe  of 
God  ?  Where  shall  he  go  with  these  under  the  dis 
owning  look  of  Christ  ? — where  employ  them  under 
that  frown  which  shuts  out  the  light  of  heaven  and 
the  visits  of  hope  ? 

Down,  like  Lucifer  from  heaven,  sinks  that  soul 
into  depths  of  endless  night!  Heaven  is  not  only 
lost,  but  hell  is  to  be  endured.  Endless  light  ex 
changed  for  endless  darkness, — an  eternity  of  bliss 
for  an  eternity  of  woe.  Faculties  that  might  range 
all  the  heavenly  hills,  hold  communion  with  saints 
and  seraphim,  and  swell  the  anthems  that  roll  from 
their  golden  lyres,  all  brought  down,  under  the  dis 
owning  look  of  Christ,  a  crushed  wreck  into  hell ! 

Who  has  not  shuddered  over  the  tragedies  of  the 
sea  ?  Who  has  not  felt  his  heart  cease  to  beat  as  the 
noble  ship  went  into  fragments  on  the  roaring  rocks  ? 
But  the  wreck  of  an  armada  is  nothing,  compared 
with  that  of  the  soul.  The  wind  that  breathes  this 
hour  and  dies  the  next,  may  moan  its  dirge ;  but 
worlds  might  wail  the  wreck  of  a  soul.  The  thun 
ders  of  the  Judgment-day,  rolling  on  through  eter 
nity,  would  be  the  befitting  knell  of  its  despair! 
Such  are  the  consequences  of  denying  Christ ;  such 
the  deathless  pangs  which  the  disowning  look  of 
Christ  will  strike  into  the  guilty  soul. 

And  it  is  right  that  these  consequences  should  be 
incurred,  in  all  their  bitterness,  by  every  wilful  re- 


THE   RUIN   OF   THE   SOUL    WILFUL.  333 

jector  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  A  mere  profession 
of  belief  in  him,  and  an  intellectual  assent  to  the 
truths  concerning  him,  while  your  heart  practically 
rejects  him,  can  be  of  no  avail ;  for,  be  it  remem 
bered,  Christ  did  not  make  a  sacrifice  of  himself  on 
the  cross  merely  that  you  should  believe  in  the  real 
ity  of  that  sacrifice,  but  that  through  it  you  should 
make  your  personal  peace  with  God.  He  poured 
out  his  blood  there,  but  it  was  that  you  should  place 
your  own  throbbing  heart  beneath,  and  have  its 
guilty  stains  washed  out. 

You  may  see  others  crowd  to  this  fountain  and 
come  away  cleansed ;  but  what  is  that  to  you  while 
you  stand  aloof  from  it  yourself,  covered  as  you  are 
with  moral  pollution  ?  So  long  as  you  refuse  to  go 
and  immerse  yourself  in  its  wave,  you  slight  its 
purifying  virtues,  you  reject  its  cleansing  provisions, 
your  belief  in  its  efficacy  is  nothing  ;  it  is  worse  than 
a  dead  letter  :  it  only  augments  the  guilt  of  your  de 
lay  and  refusal.  You  have  no  stains  which  it  cannot 
wash  out,  and  you  know  it,  and  yet  you  refuse  to  go. 

Your  moral  nature  is  diseased :  he  offers  you  an 
effective,  infallible  remedy,  and  you  reject  it.  Your 
soul  has  the  plague-spot  of  moral  death  on  it :  he 
offers  you  the  balsam  of  his  blood ;  you  reject  it. 
You  are  covered  with  the  rags  of  self-righteousness  : 
he  offers  you  a  garment  without  spot,  wrinkle,  or 
any  such  thing ;  you  reject  it.  He  meets  you  in  the 
city  of  destruction,  and  offers  you  a  passport  to  a 


334:         A   REJECTED   SAVIOUR   OUR   FINAL   JUDGE. 

place  of  safety  :  you  reject  it.  He  finds  you  poor, 
destitute,  a  ruined  bankrupt,  and  offers  you  treas 
ures  in  heaven :  you  reject  them.  He  finds  you 
unable  to  cope  with  the  king  of  terrors,  and  offers 
you  a  panoply  in  which  you  can  contend  and  tri 
umph  :  you  reject  it.  He  finds  you  on  the  great 
ocean  of  life  without  compass  or  chart,  and  the  tem 
pest  of  God's  wrath  coming  on,  and  he  offers  to  take 
you  to  a  secure  haven  :  you  reject  the  generous  of 
fer. 

In  doing  this — in  rejecting  all  these  provisions 
of  Christ's  mercy,  you  reject  HIM.  You  reject  him 
as  a  Saviour,  as  a  Redeemer,  as  the  Lamb  of  God 
who  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world.  And  how, 
then,  can  you  be  saved,  when  his  own  words  are — 
He  that  rejecteth  me,  and  receiveth  not  my  words, 
hath  one  that  judgeth  him  :  the  word  that  I  have 
spoken,  the  same  shall  judge  him  in  the  last  day : 
and  whosoever  shall  deny  me  before  men,  him  will 
I  also  deny  before  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven ! 


MEMOIK. 


THE  character  of  a  deceased  Friend  or  beloved  Kinsman  ought  not 
to  be  seen  otherwise  than  as  a  Tree  through  a  tender  haze,  or  a  lu 
minous  mist,  that  spiritualizes  and  beautifies  it ;  that  takes  away, 
indeed,  but  only  to  the  end  that  the  parts  which  are  not  abstracted  may 
appear  more  dignified  and  lovely.  The  composition  and  quality  of  the 
mind  of  a  virtuous  man,  contemplated  by  the  side  of  the  grave  where 
his  body  is  moldering,  ought  to  appear  to  be  felt  as  something  mid 
way  between  what  he  was  on  Earth,  walking  about  with  his  living 
frailties,  and  what  he  may  be  presumed  to  be  as  a  Spirit  in  Heaven. 
It  suffices,  therefore,  that  the  Trunk  and  the  main  Branches  of  the 
"Worth  of  the  Deceased  be  boldly  and  unaffectedly  represented. 

WORDSWORTH. 


MEMOIR  OF  REV,  WALTER  COLTON, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    VERMONT    FAMILY,  AND    SKETCHES    OF    WALTER    AS    A 
BOY,    YOUTH,    AND    MAN. 

PURE  Livers  were  they  all,  austere  and  grave, 

And  fearing  God,  the  very  Children  taught 

Stern  self-respect,  a  reverence  for  God's  word, 

And  an  habitual  piety,  maintained 

With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground.       • 

WORDSWORTH. 

VERMONT  is  a  State  rich,  in  physical  and  mental 
resources.  JSTo  one  can  read  its  history  without 
learning  this,  or  can  ride  through  it  and  observe  its 
grazing-grounds,  its  geology,  its  woodland  and  mount 
ain  scenery,  and  mark  the  men  whose  energies  are 
applied  to  develop  its  capacities,  without  admiring 
the  region  and  the  race.  If  its  rocks  are  marble,  its 
men  and  women,  while  of  a  noble  granite  make,  are 
any  thing  but  marble-hearted.  Social  and  personal 
truth,  purity,  and  kindness,  are  combined  with  a 
sturdy  patriotism  and  fervent  love  of  liberty.  The 
ministers,  teachers,  statesmen,  authors,  merchants, 
15 


338  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

inventors,  and  men  of  science  and  art  whom  this 
State  has  furnished  to  the  nation,  rank  with  the 
wisest,  ablest,  and  best  of  the  world. 

And  still,  amid  the  rocks  and  hills  of  the  Green 
Mountain  State,  and  of  all  New  England,  if  the  prin 
ciples  of  '76  hold  fast,  our  country  will  find  its  fore 
most  men,  its  leaders  in  the  great  conflict  for  human 
freedom,  and  in  all  that  is  great  and  good.  Rearing 
in  those  old  farm-houses  on  hill-top  and  valley- 
taking  and  giving  lessons  at  those  firesides  and  in 
those  district  schools,  and  working  the  monumental 
marble  in  those  quarries  and  shops, — are  the  young 
Marshes  and  Slades,  the  Collamores  and  Burrits,  the 
Coltons  and  Belknaps,  the  Bushes  and  Blanchards, 
and  Mary  Lyons,  whose  monuments  shall  be  in  the 
memories  of  generations  yet  to  come.  The  farms 
and  the  workshops  of  Puritan  New  England  must 
continue  to  send  forth  noble  men,  and  women  too, 
for  the  City,  the  Church,  and  the  World,  to  carry 
forward  its  Literature,  Science,  Commerce,  and  Chris- 
tianization. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  Green  Mountain  towns,  in 
the  County  of  Rutland,  Vermont,  that  a  child  was 
born  to  Walter  and  Thankful  Colton  on  the  ninth  of 
May,  1797,  whom  they  named  after  his  father,  Walter. 
He  was  the  third  of  twelve  children,  ten  of  them  sons, 
of  whom  eleven  were  reared  to  adult  age,  and  all  of 
them  became  virtuous  and  useful  members  of  society, 
and  well  to  do  in  the  world. 


MEMORABILIA   OF   THE   FATHER.  339 

"Walter's  father  was  by  trade  a  cloth- weaver,  where 
by,  mainly,  he  sustained  his  family  at  a  time  when, 
before  the  introduction  of  the  power  loom  and  spin 
ning-jenny,  the  largest  part  of  wearing  fabrics  used 
in  the  interior  of  the  country  were  home  made.  In 
his  younger  days  he  taught  school,  but  emigrated 
early  to  Vermont  from  Long  Meadow,  Massachusetts. 
Through  life  he  has  devoted  a  portion  of  each  day  to 
self-improvement  by  judicious  reading,  thereby  con 
stantly  adding  to  the  stores  of  a  tenacious  memory. 

By  the  blessing  of  God  upon  his  uniform  temperance, 
and  an  equable,  regular  life,  his  hale  health  has  con 
tinued  unbroken  to  his  present  eighty-seventh  year ; 
his  mental  faculties  and  animal  spirits  have  been  re 
tained  in  their  vigor.  When  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
seven  he  was  heard  to  remark  that,  "  for  forty  years 
past,  he  had  not  failed  a  single  Sabbath  to  be  present 
at  church,"  although  he  'has  lived  a  mile  from  the 
meeting-house,  and  has  always  walked. 

For  nearly  fifty  years  he  has  been  a  conscientious, 
consistent,  and  exemplary  Deacon  of  the  Congrega 
tional  Church  in  Georgia,  Vermont.  Their  father's 
principles  and  example,  and  a  common-school  educa 
tion,  were  the  only  dowry  he  could  give  to  any  of  his 
children.  While  some  of  the  sons  have  attained  to 
wealth,  and  all  to  competency  in  different  parts  of 
the  United  States,  it  is  a  feature  in  this  Vermont 
family  which  deserves  to  be  held  up  for  imitation, 
that  such  is  the  strong  feeling  of  affection  still  exist- 


340  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

ing  between  all  its  members,  that  if  one  suffer,  all 
the  others  suffer  with  it ;  and  there  has  not  been  one 
of  the  eleven  who  would  not  at  any  time  willingly 
share  his  last  dollar  with  a  brother  or  sister  in  want. 

From  early  youth  Walter  was  delicate  in  health, 
of  a  nervous  temperament,  and  small  make,  and  his 
brain  unduly  exercised  for  his  body.  He  was,  however, 
an  active  and  happy  boy,  especially  fond  of  gunning, 
fishing,  and  skating.  For  these  exercises  there  were 
peculiar  facilities  in  the  town  of  Georgia,  on  the 
shores  of  Lake  Champlain,  where  his  father  removed 
when  "Walter  was  but  an  infant. 

In  childhood  he  used  to  act  the  preacher,  getting 
his  books,  pulpit,  and  hearers  about  him,  and  going 
through  all  the  forms  of  public  worship  with  a  grave 
propriety  far  above  his  years.  His  memory  was  un 
commonly  facile  and  retentive ;  and  when  he  was  but 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  repeat 
ing  or  declaiming  one  of  Dr.  Hunter's  sermons  on 
the  History  and  Character  of  Balaam.  In  his  boy 
hood  he  was  remarkably  familiar  with  the  Bible.  It 
was  a  common  practice  in  his  father's  family  for  all 
the  children  to  sit  down  with  their  Bibles,  and  then 
for  one  of  them,  in  turn,  to  repeat  a  verse  from  the 
historical  parts  somewhere  between  Genesis  and 
Psalms,  and  set  the  others  to  hunting  for  it.  By  this 
practice,  frequently  repeated,  they  became  so  familiar 
with  the  Bible  that  they  could  readily  turn  to  almost 
any  text  that  might  be  given. 


NOTES   OF  HIS  BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH.  341 

"Walter  was  distinguished  among  his  playmates 
and  brothers  for  his  mental  vivacity,  sparkling  wit 
and  imagination,  playful  fancy,  and  aptness  at  story 
telling.  He  was  regarded  as  a  leader  among  other 
boys,  and  they  would  often  gather  in  his  father's 
yard  to  hear  Walter  spin  *his  yarns.  His  fondness 
for  society,  and  his  company  being  sought  after  by 
his  seniors,  proved  to  him  a  snare,  for  at  the  age  of 
seventeen  a  discovery  made  by  his  father  that  Walter 
was  in  danger  from  evil  associates,  led  him  to  send 
his  son  to  an  uncle  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  to  learn  of  him 
the  trade  of  a  cabinet-maker. 

He  there  came  under  the  pastoral  influence  and 
instructions  of  Rev.  Nathan  Strong,  D.  D.,  whereby 
his  attention  was  first  seriously  turned  to  the  import 
ance  of  personal  religion.  Early  in  the  year  1816 
his  convictions  of  sin  resulted  in  the  hearty  accept 
ance  of  the  Christian  scheme  of  justification  through 
faith  in  Christ ;  and  he  consecrated  himself  to  God, 
by  a  public  profession  of  religion  in  the  Centre 
Church,  Hartford.  Five  other  young  men  united 
with  him  in  this  profession,  who  were  likewise  follow 
ing  mechanical  pursuits  in  another  shop  at  Hartford, 
and  they  all  afterwards  became  preachers  of  the  Gos 
pel. 

Shortly  after  this  decisive  entrance  upon  the  life 
of  a  Christian,  feeling  that  he  could  serve  God  and 
his  generation  better  through  a  liberal  education 
with  a  view  to  the  ministry,  and  advised  also  by  his 


34:2  MEMOIR  OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

pastor  and  friends,  who  saw  in  him  a  warmth  of 
heart  and  a  vein  of  originality  that  gave  promise,  if 
rightly  worked,  of  future  usefulness,  he  entered  the 
Hartford  Grammar-school,  under  the  charge  of  Rev. 
Horace  Hooker,  in  order  to  prepare  for  college. 

In  the  fall  of  1818,  being  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
he  entered  Yale  College,  where  he  won  the  Berk 
ley  an  Prize  for  the  best  Latin  translation,  and  deliv 
ered  the  Valedictory  Poem  when  he  graduated  in 
1822.  He  taught  school  one  season  in  his  college 
course  at  West  Springfield,  Mass. 

Of  his  acquirements  and  scholarship  while  in  col 
lege,  a  class-mate,  since  risen  to  eminence,  says,  that 
although  highly  reputable,  they  were  not  such  as  to 
place  him  in  the  first  rank,  or  to  give  promise  of  any 
very  signal  success  in  that  respect  in  after-life.  "  He 
entered  college  too  late,  with  preparations  too  hastily 
and  imperfectly  made,  and  with  his  mental  habits  too 
far  formed,  as  I  suppose,  to  enable  him  to  reach  emi 
nence  in  the  profound  researches  of  science,  or  suc 
cessfully  to  compete  in  classical  literature  with  many 
who,  of  perhaps  inferior  natural  powers,  had  enjoyed 
the  advantages  of  superior  early  training  ;  and, 
though  not  universally  applicable,  yet  there  is  un 
doubtedly  great  force  and  justice  in  the  remark,  that 
whatever  nature  may  do  in  the  distribution  of  tal 
ents,  the  true  distinction  between  men  is  in  their 
training. 

"  In  activity  of  mind  and  quickness  of  apprehen- 


STUDIES    AND    STANDING-    IN   COLLEGE.  343 

sion ;  in  the  exercise  of  imagination,  often,  it  is  true, 
at  that  time  displaying  more  fertility  than  correct 
ness,  and  needing  rigid  discipline  therefore  to  re 
strain  its  luxuriance  and  bring  it  within  the  laws  of 
true  taste ;  in  the  qualities  which  seem  to  find  their 
proper  sphere  in  elegant  literature,  and  fit  one  to  be 
come  a  popular  writer,  or  ready,  interesting  speaker, 
I  think  Mr.  Colton  stood  among  the  foremost.  It 
was  customary  in  the  literary  societies  and  at  the 
class  exhibitions  to  make  a  dialogue  or  a  play  a 
prominent  part  of  the  entertainment ;  and  I  well  rec- 
olle'ct  that,  on  several  such  occasions,  his  powers  were 
very  successfully  and  with  general  approbation  laid 
under  contribution. 

"  The  tendencies  of  mind  were  then  very  observ 
able  and  active,  which  afterwards  discovered  them 
selves  in  his  various  productions,  and  gave  him  so 
large  a  share  of  success  and  distinction  as  an  author. 
There  seemed  a  natural  aptitude  for  whatever  was 
refined  in  thought  or  graceful  in  expression ;  a  genial 
warmth  of  fancy,  a  ready  humor,  a  quick  and  keen 
perception  of  the  beautiful,  and  of  the  ridiculous,  too, 
which  enabled  him  to  describe  a  character  or  a  scene 
with  great  felicity,  and  gave  a  strong  attraction  to 
his  conversation  and  his  writing.  I  have  no  doubt 
he  found  far  more  congenial  communion  with  the 
poets  and  essayists  than  with  the  mathematicians ; 
and  Milton,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Addison  would 
rank  higher  in  his  estimation  than  Napier's  Loga- 


344  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

rithms  or  Euclid's  Geometry,  Surds,  or  Conic  Sec 
tions.  This  was  owing  probably  as  much  to  the  late 
beginning  of  study  as  to  the  natural  bias  of  his  mind. 
I  do  not  question  that  he  had  the  natural  powers 
adequate  to  have  made  him  a  very  competent  classic 
or  mathematician ;  although  the  general  features  of 
his  mental  character  would  have  remained  the  same 
substantially  under  any  training. 

u  But  he  had  not  the  time,  nor  perhaps  the  dispo 
sition,  then  to  pay  that  degree  of  attention  to  those 
pursuits  which  were  requisite  to  secure  the  victory. 
A  mind  that  had  already  unfolded  its  powers  of  re 
flection,  sought  for  thought  and  sentiment  rather 
than  words  or  signs.  The  possessor  of  it  would  most 
naturally  become  a  reader,  and  betake  himself  to 
those  master-spirits  whose  works  are  storehouses  of 
thought  and  imagery,  and  who  have  enriched  the 
world  by  the  splendid  efforts  of  their  genius. 

"  In  this  respect  he  was  an  example  of  a  large  class 
of  young  men,  especially  from  our  New  England  col 
leges,  whom  a  generous  passion  for  an  education  has 
impelled  at  the  age  of  manhood  to  forsake  the  farm 
and  the  trade  for  the  academy  ;  and  who,  if  they  do 
not  become  quite  so  minutely  accurate  in  the  niceties, 
so  skilful  in  adjusting  the  beautiful  drapery  of  learn 
ing  as  some  others,  often  better  attain  the  solid  sub 
stance  of  available  learning,  and  become  the  most 
successful  and  useful  men  in  the  various  walks  of 
professional  life." 


IN   THE   SEMINARY   AND   PROFESSORSHIP.  345 

The  great  object  of  Mr.  Col  ton  in  relinquishing 
his  former  avocations  and  entering  upon  a  course  of 
study,  having  been  from  the  beginning  the  Gospel 
ministry,  he  entered  the  Theological  Seminary  at 
Andover  immediately  on.  leaving  college.  He  devo 
ted  much  time  while  there  to  literature,  composing, 
among  other  things,  a  Sacred  Drama,  which  was 
acted  by  the  students  at  one  of  their  Rhetorical 
Exhibitions,  and  a  News  Carriers'  Address  for  one 
of  the  Boston  newspapers,  which  gained  him  a 
prize  of  $200.  His  anniversary  part  at  the  seminary 
was  also  a  moral  poem. 

Soon  after  graduating,  in  the  fall  of  1825,  he  was 
ordained  as  an  Evangelist,  according  to  the  usage  of 
the  Congregational  Church,  and  was  then  chosen 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  and  Belles-Lettres  in 
the  Scientific  and  Military  Academy  at  Middletown, 
Conn.,  under  the  Presidency  of  Captain  Alden  Part 
ridge.  This  appointment  was  accepted,  not  without 
misgivings  and  hesitation  by  one  of  his  turn  and 
training,  from  the  necessity  it  involved  of  foregoing, 
for  a  time,  the  pastoral  office.  He  was,  however, 
mainly  resolved  in  this  decision — which  proved  the 
rudder  of  his  life — by  reasons  growing  out  of  the 
state  of  his  health,  already  much  undermined  by 
dyspepsia.  His  bitter  experience  and  mortal  com 
bats  with  the  student's  foe  at  that  time  were  com 
memorated  by  him  in  some  vigorous  lines  entitled 
"  Dyspepsy." 


346  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

During  the  four  years  of  his  professorship,  besides 
fulfilling  the  obvious  duties  of  his  position,  he  wrote 
"  A  Prize  Essay  on  Duelling,"  "  A  Discussion  of  the 
Genius  of  Coleridge,"  "The  Moral  Power  of  the 
Poet,  Painter,  and  Sculptor  contrasted ;"  and  many 
other  contributions  in  prose  and  verse  for  the  Mid- 
dletown  Gazette,  over  the  signature  of  Bertram. 

Among  other  exercises  in  the  line  of  his  profes 
sion  while  there,  the  following  are  preserved,  as  hav 
ing  been  much  admired  by  his  friends  at  the  time, 
and  as  containing  the  grounds  of  his  after  success  in 
authorship,  and  even  the  very  germs  of  thought, 
imagination,  and  fancy,  which  later  in  life  flowered 
into  the  peculiar  rhetorical  beauties  of  expression 
that  marked  his  style.  The  first  is  in  1826,  entitled 

Address  delivered  before  the  Cadets  of  Captain  Partridge's  Academy, 
on  the  death  of  the  Ex-Presidents  Adams  and  Jefferson,  by  Rev. 
Walter  Colton,  Chaplain  of  the  Institution. 

THE  bolt  which  rives  the  oak  is  hurled  from  the  cloud  of  em 
bosomed  thunder :  the  wave  that  whelms  a  navy  is  urged  by  the 
might  of  a  tempest:  the  earthquake,  whose  footsteps  are  the 
ruins  of  cities,  proceeds  from  the  violent  contentions  of  those 
mysterious  agents  that  war  in  the  recesses  of  utter  night ;  and 
those  men  of  giant  mold,  who  come  forth  to  control  the  des 
tinies  of  millions,  are  produced  in  those  convulsions  which  shake 
the  moral  world  to  its  centre.  They  appear  in  those  conflicts 
which  enlist  the  roused-up  energies  of  nations,  and  which  would 
be  followed  by  the  most  disastrous  consequences,  but  for  these 
master-spirits  that  reign  over  the  scene  of  their  troubled  birth. 

There  are  no  tempests  in  a  tranquil  atmosphere,  no  mountain 


EULOGY   ON   ADAMS  AND  JEFFEKSON.  34:7 

waves  upon  a  quiet  sea,  no  cataracts  in  an  even  stream ;  and 
rarely  does  a  man  of  pre-eminent  powers  burst  upon  our  ad 
miration  in  the  even,  undisturbed  flow  of  human  affairs.  Those 
men  who  rise  to  sway  the  opinions,  or  control  the  energies  of  a 
nation — to  move  the  great  master-springs  of  human  action,  are 
developed  by  events  of  infinite  moment.  They  appear  in  those 
conflicts  where  the  political  or  religious  faith  of  nations  is  agi 
tated,  and  where  the  temporal  and  eternal  welfare  of  millions  is 
at  issue. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  awful  conflicts  that  those  men  appeared 
whose  death  has  just  occasioned  the  lamentations  of  a  grateful 
people  to  mingle  with  the  jubilee  of  their  Independence.  They 
appeared  in  our  convulsive  struggle  for  life  and  liberty ;  and  let 
these  universal  expressions  of  respect  and  sorrow  tell  of  their 
might  in  that  hour  of  our  extremity.  Had  they  appeared  before 
that  hour,  it  would  have  been  too  soon  for  that  point  of  awful 
decision — that  point  when  their  determined  action  would  be  sup 
ported  by  the  combined  strength  of  a  nation ;  and  had  they  ap 
peared  after  that  hour,  it  would  have  been  too  late,  for  the  arms 
of  the  people  would  already  have  been  bound  in  chains,  or  par 
alyzed  in  death. 

No  deep  drift  of  human  forecast  could  have  arranged  circum 
stances  with  so  much  precision.  He  who  rules  in  the  armies  of 
heaven,  and  among  the  inhabitants  of  earth — who  sees  the  end 
from  the  beginning — appointed  the  time,  arranged  the  circum 
stances,  and  called  up  these  powerful  agents  of  his  holy  pleasure. 
He  endowed  them  with  those  severe  virtues  which  the  perilous 
crisis  demanded.  They  were  to  be  firm,  when  others  wavered ; 
they  were  to  decide,  when  others  doubted;  they  were  to  act,  when 
others  faltered  and  deferred.  They  answered  these  high  ex 
pectations.  They  were  firm — firm  when  every  thing  around  them 
fluctuated  like  the  restless  tide.  They  were  decided,  and  wrote 
down  with  an  untrembling  hand  a  DECLARATION  which  the  fearful 
read  with  quivering  lips;  which  the  brave  regarded  with  awe; 


348  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

and  which  loosened  the  joints  of  the  monarch  upon  his  throne  : 
they  did  act — and  their  actions  bespoke  the  entire  exertion  of 
their  undivided  strength. 

They  seemed  like  men  incapable  of  doubt  and  fear,  and  who 
were  removed  beyond  the  necessity  of  suspense.  They  pos 
sessed  an  intuition  of  consequences,  a  knowledge  of  results  that 
warranted  them  in  a  course  of  conduct  which  appeared  to  men 
of  less  penetration  the  height  of  rashness.  The  distant  future 
appeared  to  them  in  a  light  approaching  nearer  to  certainty  than 
mere  conjecture.  They  beheld  its  faint  outline,  dimly  apparent, 
like  that  of  the  moon,  through  a  long  vista  of  vapors,  clouds,  and 
tempests.  y  '^ 

They  never  lost  sight  of  the  ultimate  object,  or  wavered  in 
their  march  to  its  attainment.  Their  footsteps  must  be  the  graves 
of  their  enemies,  and  their  eyes  must  swim  in  tears  over  the  death 
of  their  friends ;  they  must  encounter  the  doubts  and  severe  ani 
madversions  of  the  less  bold  and  penetrating ;  for  their  plans  lie 
too  deep,  and  extend  too  far,  for  common  observation;  they  must 
be  opposed,  and  may  be  betrayed;  but  they  must  go  on, the  good 
of  their  country  calls.  They  are  not  at  liberty  to  consult  for 
their  own  safety  or  happiness.  They  acknowledge  no  private 
interests,  no  personal  motives.  The  common  weal  is  the  regu 
lating  principle  in  their  conduct.  They  have  placed  themselves 
within  the  fatal  range  of  exasperated  ambition  and  provoked 
power,  but  they  are  prepared  for  consequences.  They  have  writ 
ten  down  a  declaration  of  their  freedom,  and  are  ready  to  seal  it 
with  their  blood. 

They  survived  the  conflict;  broke  the  oppressor's  rod;  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  freedom,  deep  and  strong.  They  realized 
their  most  distant  hopes ;  they  lived  to  see  their  country  eminent 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth ;  commanding  resources  which 
astonished  the  politicians  of  the  old  world ;  gathering  new  strength 
with  every  successive  year,  till  her  jubilee  was  ushered  in  with  a 
*hout,  and  rolled  in  a  tide  of  rapture  over  her  hills  :mtl  valleys. 


EULOGY   ON    ADAMS   AND   JEFFERSON.  349 

Their  recollections  were  too  vivid,  their  feelings  too  strong,  the 
scene  too  transporting  for  enfeebled  nature  to  endure;  nature 
failed,  and  their  vigorous  spirits  winged  their  way  into  the  world 
unknown. 

But  though  their  mighty  spirits  have  fled,  and  though  their 
honored  remains  must  be  yielded  to  corruption,  yet  their  memo 
ries  will  remain ;  and  ages  hence  a  record  of  their  doings  will  be 
found  deep  and  indelible  upon  the  human  heart.  Those  men 
who  live  only  for  the  good  of  others,  never  die.  The  epicure 
will  be  forgotten  with  his  banqueting-board.  The  conqueror 
hardly  survives  the  pangs  he  has  inflicted,  or  the  liberties  be  has 
overthrown.  The  foster-child  of  fame,  who  floats  through  life 
upon  a  tide  of  popularity,  may  at  last  be  wrecked  upon  a  shore 
where  the  past  is  forgotten,  and  the  future  will  mock  his  preten 
sions,  and  where  the  gilded  trappings  of  a  shroud  are  all  that 
distinguish  the  man  of  wealth  from  the  mendicant  that  starved 
at  his  portal. 

But  they  who  have  lived  for  the  good  of  others,  though  age 
may  make  a  wreck  of  their  strength,  the  animal  flame  go  out, 
and  the  grave  close  over  their  mortal  remains;  though  the  monu 
ment  may  molder  over  the  spot  it  consecrates,  and  the  lapse  of 
ages  pass  on ;  though  the  globe  itself  should  become  a  ruin,  and 
the  course  of  its  march  through  the  heavens  be  unknown,  yet 
these  men,  devoted  to  the  high  interests  of  their  species,  will  live 
still.  They,  as  the  visible  agents,  are  removed,  but  the  light  and 
force  of  their  example  still  remain ;  and  the  moral  elements  will 
never  cease  to  show  the  traces  of  their  purity  and  power.  The 
conduct  of  each  is  a  link  in  that  chain  which  connects  time  with 
eternity :  over  which  death  has  no  power,  and  which  cannot  be 
dissolved  even  by  the  fires  that  shall  at  last  melt  down  these 
nether  elements. 

No !  it  is  the  man  who  limits  his  conduct  to  the  circle  of  his 
personal  interests  that  perishes  at  death ;  while  he  who  seems 
indifferent  to  himself,  who  is  affected  by  the  interest  of  others, 


350  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

who  is  roused  to  action  by  those  objects  which  tell  upon  the 
happy  destinies  of  a  nation,  lives  on — lives  on,  despite  of  envy, 
malice,  and  the  grave.  The  time  will  come,  when  those  intrepid 
men  who  first  asserted  our  rights  and  breasted  themselves  to 
the  strongest  power  on  earth,  will  be  revered  with  a  veneration 
approaching  to  idolatry,  but  for  the  exalted  worth  on  which  it  is 
bestowed.  Let  the  familiarities  of  affinity  in  time  pass  away ; — 
let  the  medium  through  which  we  view  them  be  extended  into  a 
vista  of  ages ; — let  the  glorious  results  of  their  doings  alone  be 
around  us,  and  from  this  position  they  will  appear  like  beings 
strongly  endowed  for  a  work  that  transcends  the  common  pow 
ers  of  humanity ;  and  filling  their  noble  vocation  with  a  purity 
of  motive,  and  depth  of  understanding,  and  an  energy  of  action 
unparalleled  in  the  history  of  man. 

Of  that  determined  few,  who  subscribed  to  the  fearful  decla 
ration  of  our  rights,  but  ONE  remains.  His  companions, — where 
are  they  ?  One  after  another,  they  have  gone  to  their  final  rest ; 
and  his  heart  is  now  breaking  for  those  who  were  with  him  the 
only  survivors,  but  who,  even  in  death,  were  not  divided.  He 
stands  alone,  like  a  venerable  oak  amid  the  ruins  of  the  forest, 
ere  long  to  bow  before  the  tempest  that  has  prostrated  its  com 
panions.  He  remains  a  living  representative  of  the  mighty  dead 
— a  monument  upon  which  the  splendors  of  their  worth  seem  to 
linger,  like  the  glories  of  sunset  upon  the  evening  cloud.  He  is 
the  last  of  those  constellations  which  appeared  in  our  hemis 
phere  while  wrapped  in  darkness  and  tempest,  and  which  held 
their  courses,  steady  and  luminous,  through  the  long  night  of 
our  peril,  and  waned  not  till  the  splendors  of  breaking  day. 

What  may  be  our  destiny  as  a  nation,  the  impenetrable 
future  must  develop.  God  may  so  order  it,  that  the  deepest 
severities  which  overtake  humanity  may  betide  us.  The  political 
world  is  now,  for  the  most  part,  still ;  but  this  quietude  may  be 
merely  a  suspense  of  action,  while  its  exhausted  energies  may 
gather  strength  for  a  more  violent  convulsion.  Tin- 


EULOGY   ON   ADAMS   AND   JEFFERSON.  351 

seems  most  tranquil  just  before  it  is  roused  into  wrath.  We 
may  be  called  from  the  peace  and  serenity  of  domestic  life  to  the 
encounters  of  the  doubtful  field.  We  may  be  placed  where  upon 
our  bearing  the  destinies  of  millions  will  depend.  We  may  be 
placed  where  there  is  no  alternative  between  a  resignation  of 
our  privileges  and  the  grave.  But  if  we  keep  in  vivid  remem 
brance  the  worth  and  sacrifices  of  those  who  bequeathed  us 
these  privileges,  we  shall  not  be  held  in  suspense,  though  the 
grave  be  damp  and  the  shroud  thereof  drenched  in  blood.  It 
becomes  us,  even  in  this  apparent  security,  to  prepare  for  the 
most  perilous  vicissitudes  that  can  await  us.  We  must  brace 
the  sinews  of  our  strength  to  the  grappling  arm  of  tyranny 
wherever  it  may  fall ;  and,  trusting  in  Him  who  has  been  our 
defence  in  ages  past,  let  us  hand  down  to  the  generations  that 
follow  us,  our  rights  and  privileges  unimpaired. 


Address  delivered  at  the  Chapel  of  the  Lyceum  of  the  American  Lit 
erary,  Scientific,  and  Military  Academy,  after  the  funeral  of  Com 
modore  Macdonough,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Colton,  Chaplain  of  the  In 
stitution. 

THE  attachments  of  a  nation  to  the  land  of  their  birth  are 
strengthened  by  their  veneration  for  those  who  sleep  in  its  bo 
som.  It  is  this  hallowed  respect — this  sacred  affection  for  the 
dead,  that  unites  the  present  generation  with  the  past,  and 
awakens  in  the  breast  of  a  people  a  vigorous,  virtuous  pat 
riotism. 

Were  we  compelled,  by  some  irresistible  urgency,  to  leave 
forever  this  land  of  our  pride  and  hopes,  our  hearts  would  dis 
solve  in  grief  over  so  hopeless  a  disruption  from  the  breathing 
objects  of  our  affection;  but  our  blood  would  chill,  as  with  par 
ricidal  horror,  at  the  idea  of  abandoning  forever  the  graves  of 


352  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

our  fathers.  These  attachments  to  the  deceased  objects  of  our 
love  and  veneration  are  not  without  an  influence  upon  our  feel 
ings  and  conduct ;  and  the  tendency  of  this  influence  will  be  sal 
utary  in  proportion  to  the  virtues  of  the  deceased :  hence  the  ex 
pediency  of  keeping  in  living,  vigorous  remembrance,  the  piety 
and  worth  of  the  departed. 

Among  those  on  whom  our  veneration  fixes  with  the  deepest 
interest,  and  who  will  rightly  control  our  conduct  from  their 
urns,  is  he  whose  mortal  remains  we  have  just  committed  to  the 
earth.  Well  might  we  weep,  while  we  spread  his  cold  couch  of 
clay,  and  mantled  him  down  into  the  voiceless  recess  of  the 
grave.  Oh,  how  changed — how  altered  from  all  that  he  was ! 
The  eye  that  melted  with  pity,  is  now  sealed  to  its  own  corrup 
tion, — the  heart  that  beat  and  glowed  with  the  love  of  Christ,  is 
now  fixed  and  passionless, — the  breast  that  heaved  with  noble, 
generous  purposes,  is  now  pressed  down  into  unalterable  still 
ness, — the  arm,  from  whose  reacting  energy  the  javelin  flew  like 
lightning  from  the  cloud,  is  now  motionless  and  cold !  In  our 
voiceless  grief,  we  awake  above  him  the  thunders  of  the  minute- 
gun  ;  but  he  is  laid  in  that  sleep  from  which  we  wake  not — that 
sleep  on  which  no  clarion's  note  shall  sound,  no  busy  morning 
rise — the  long,  long  slumber  of  the  tomb ! 

But  it  is  not  my  object  on  this  overwhelming  occasion,  to 
give  expression  to  passionate  grief,  or  pronounce  a  lofty  eulogy ; 
yet,  while  we  bow  in  silent  submission  to  this  mysterious  Provi 
dence,  it  is  due  to  the  memory  of  the  departed,  and  may  not  be 
without  its  salutary  effects  upon  the  living,  to  look  steadily  at 
the  worth  of  the  deceased. 

True  courage  is  one  of  the  sublimest  passions  of  which  the 
human  soul  is  capable.  It  is  a  calm,  unreserved  surrender  of 
ourselves  to  the  mighty  event  before  us ; — it  is  an  unshrinking, 
uncompromising,  unquestioning  devotion  to  the  dread,  inscruta 
ble  issue.  It  differs  essentially  from  that  blind,  reckless  t-xp"- 
sure  of  life,  so  frequently  and  falsely  termed  courage;  and  which 


EULOGY   ON  COM.   MACDONOUGH.  353 

may  belong,  in  as  eminent  a  degree,  to  the  man  who  leaps  from 
the  precipice  as  to  him  who  dies  in  battle.  True  courage  is  not 
indifferent  to  consequences, — the  sacrifice  must  not  transcend  its 
object.  All  the  circumstances  which  predict  success  or  failure 
are  held  in  luminous  survey,  till  the  calm,  collected  judgment  of 
the  man  determines — and  then,  action  alone  remains. 

Such  was  the  courage  of  Macdonough  on  the  perilous  edge  of 
battle.  When  the  sound  of  preparation  had  died  away  into  that 
suspense  where  men  are  pinched  for  breath,  and  expectation  be 
comes  agony,  he  appeared  tranquil  as  one  unalterably  fixed. 
And  during  the  doubtful  conflict  he  made  none  of  those  blind, 
headlong  movements  which  indicate  the  presence  of  a  desperate 
ambition  or  the  want  of  capacity.  He  went  to  the  work  like  a 
man  penetrated  with  a  deep  sense  of  his  duty — not  at  liberty  to 
act  otherwise — unconcerned  what  might  become  of  himself,  anx 
ious  only  to  answer  the  claims  of  his  country,  his  conscience, 
and  his  God. 

When  silence  from  the  deck  told  that  the  work  of  death  was 
done,  then  the  sternness  of  the  general  gave  way  to  the  sensibil 
ities  of  the  man,  and  he  wept  over  the  fallen  brave.  His  gener 
ous  pity  overflowed  in  acts  of  attention  to  the  bleeding  enemy  : 
he  no  longer  regarded  them  as  foes,  but  as  sufferers,  whom  the 
irresistible  impulse  of  his  heart  led  him  to  relieve.  That  bitter 
hostility  to  the  resisting  or  conquered  enemy  which  has  sadly 
tarnished  the  lustre  of  many  a  hero,  found  no  place  in  the  breast 
of  Macdonough.  He  regarded  the  enemy  as  men  whom 
the  deplorable  circumstances  of  war  had  arrayed  against  his 
country ;  and  while  it  was  his  duty  to  oppose  the  destructive 
urgency  of  their  movements,  he  would  not,  for  a  moment,  har 
bor  a  feeling  that  would  triumph  in  the  destruction  of  an  indi 
vidual. 

His  kind  offices  to  the  wounded  captive  will  long  be  remem 
bered  by  those  who  encountered  him,  and  many  a  rough  Cana 
dian  heart  will  weep  at  the  story  of  his  death.  Were  all  who 


354:  MEMOIR   OF  WALTER  COLTON. 

engage  in  war  to  possess  the  spirit  of  Macdonough,  this  Gorgon 
of  death  would  lose  half  his  horrors. 

There  was  a  silent  energy  in  the  movements  of  Macdonough 
that  indicated  the  decision  and  efficacy  of  his  character.  While 
you  would  have  thought  him  accomplishing  but  little,  he  would 
be  conducting  a  complicated  train  of  circumstances  to  a  most 
difficult  result ;  and  would  show,  in  the  END,  that  he  had  not 
been  the  indifferent  being  you  might  have  supposed  him.  The 
stream  that  makes  the  least  noise  has  the  deepest  channel.  The 
arrow  that  whizzes  least  from  the  string  does  the  most  execution. 

The  interest  he  manifested  in  the  public  honors  bestowed 
upon  him  never  exceeded  a  suitable  respect  to  those  who  con 
ferred  them.  Indeed,  while  different  States  vied  in  their  spirit- 
stirring  expressions  of  veneration  for  the  hero,  he  discovered  an 
indifference  that  could  be  reconciled  only  with  the  extreme  mod 
esty  of  the  man.  He  seemed  as  one  conscious  of  having  done 
only  his  duty,  and  who  had  no  claims  to  any  particular  favor. 
Therefore,  he  looked  upon  these  expressions  of  public  gratitude 
and  veneration  as  a  gratuity,  pleasing,  no  doubt,  as  they  bespoke 
the  best  feelings  of  a  nation  towards  him,  yet  altogether  unmer 
ited  on  his  part.  He  was  never  known,  of  his  own  accord,  to 
mention  the  battle  on  Lake  Champlain. 

Looking  at  Macdonough  as  he  developed  the  citizen,  one 
would  hardly  think  him  formed  for  the  tremendous  issue  of  war. 
The  innate  modesty  of  the  man  pervaded  and  concealed  the  air 
and  aspect  of  the  conqueror.  His  unpretending  manners  and  in 
viting  address  seemed  hardly  compatible  with  his  commanding 
energies  on  the  deck  of  death.  A  stranger,  falling  in  with  him, 
would  soon  have  felt  that  he  was  in  the  society  of  a  modest 
Christian,  an  enlightened  citizen,  a  warm-hearted  philanthropist 
— but  it  never  would  have  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  convers 
ing  with  the  Hero  of  the  Lakes ;  so  utterly  aside  did  the  mod 
esty  of  the  man  place  him  from  every  appearance  that  indicated 
a  sense  of  personal  importance. 


EULOGY   ON  COM.   MACDONOTJGH.  355 

He  took  apparently  as  lively  an  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the 
community  where  he  belonged,  as  those  who  were  never,  like 
him,  called  away  from  it  by  the  responsibilities  of  a  lofty  station. 
No  scheme  that  promised  to  promote  the  social,  civil,  or  religious 
interests  of  the  little  community  that  embosomed  his  truly 
amiable  family,  languished  for  want  of  his  prompt  and  liberal 
patronage.  He  discharged  so  faithfully  the  duties  of  a  citizen, 
that  one  would  have  supposed  these  his  prime  responsibilities. 

His  benevolence  to  the  poor  is  known  best  to  themselves: 
the  cottages  of  want  can  tell  many  a  simple  story  of  his  charity 
that  found  its  way  unseen  to  their  door.  The  famishing  and 
helpless,  refreshened  by  his  bounty,  have  blessed  the  UNKNOWN 
heart  that  pitied  them.  The  widow  and  fatherless  may  assume 
no  pompous  badges  of  woe,  but  they  will  FEEL  that  he  is  GONE. 
May  God  touch  the  hearts  of  others,  and,  as  one  source  of  char 
ity  is  cut  off,  open  new  ones. 

I  have  already  transgressed  the  limits  which  I  had  prescribed 
to  these  remarks;  but  I  should  do  injustice  to  the  character  of 
the  deceased,  as  well  as  violence  to  my  own  feelings,  not  to 
bring  more  distinctly  into  view  the  unadorned  piety  of  Macdon- 
ough.  His  religion  was  not  a  garment  to  be  assumed  or  laid 
aside  as  taste  or  convenience  might  dictate.  It  was  not  an  air 
of  solemnity  that  pervaded  him  only  when  in  the  society  of  the 
good :  it  was  not  a  current  of  feeling  which  commenced  and 
terminated  within  the  precincts  of  the  sanctuary ;  but  it  was  an 
ESSENTIAL  part  of  his  character — an  indispensable  in  his  very 
being :  he  appeared  on  no  occasion  without  it.  The  first  and 
last  impression  he  left  upon  a  stranger,  was  a  deep  sense  of  his 
religious  obligations. 

His  piety,  like  his  valor,  was  unpretending ;  it  had  more  to  do 
with  his  own  heart  than  with  the  conduct  of  others.  He  incul 
cated  religion  by  the  purity  of  his  own  life.  His  conduct  was  a 
living,  correct  commentary  upon  his  profession :  they  were  never 
known  to  be  at  variance.  Ascertain  what  his  religious  opinions 


MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 


were  upon  a  subject,  either  of  greater  or  less  moment,  and  you 
might  predict  with  certainty  what  would  be  his  course  of  con 
duct.  Conscience  imposed  upon  him  an  absolute  obligation — 
an  uncomplying  necessity ;  he  acknowledged  no  other  authority 
— he  consulted  no  other  oracle;  what  she  required  must  be 
done — what  she  prohibited,  for  his  life  he  would  not  essay. 

On  the  perilous  edge  of  battle  the  hurrying  sounds  of  prepara 
tion  were  arrested,  that  he  might  implore  the  aid  of  a  divine  arm ; 
and  when  the  conflict  closed,  with  an  overflowing  gratitude  he 
remembered  that  divine  arm.  It  was  this  sense  of  the  divine 
agency  that  made  all  his  honors  sit  so  loosely  upon  him ;  for 
they  attracted  every  eye  more  than  his. 

While  the  public  prints  were  loud  in  the  rehearsal  of  his 
achievements,  and  the  poets  of  the  day  were  weaving  into  song 
his  brilliant  exploits,  and  men  everywhere  talked  of  his  match 
less  worth,  he  was  in  the  circle  that  had  met  for  prayer.  Oh, 
God !  this  humble,  retiring  piety  adorns  and  exalts  its  possessor, 
as  much  as  it  honors  thee !  It  is  recollections  connected  with 
the  piety  of  the  deceased  that  now  sustain  his  weeping  friends. 
Had  he  gone  to  his  grave  with  all  his  honors  upon  him,  unpre 
pared  for  his  last  account,  we  might  well  even  now  be  pouring 
the  loud  expressions  of  our  grief  into  his  grave.  But  his  godli 
ness  prevents  our  tears.  Oh,  Piety !  thou  brightest  ornament, 
fairest  virtue,  richest  inheritance  of  man ! 

Standing  around  the  grave  of  Macdonough,  who  does  not  feel 
the  energy  of  that  saying,  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly?  The 
lightning  which  shivers  the  mountain  oak  plays  destructively  in 
the  vale  below :  death  tramples  down  alike  the  lowly  and  the 
proud :  character  or  station  is  no  security.  I  know  you  are  now 
in  the  spring-time  of  your  hopes :  the  currents  of  health  mantle 
warmly  through  your  veins  ;  the  pulse  of  life  beats  vigorously 
in  your  limbs ;  but  if  the  blood  which  has  left  that  heart  revisits 
its  source  again,  there  will  be  accomplished  in  you  little  less 
than  a  miracle.  You  little  deem  how  precarious  is  your  tenure 


EULOGY   ON   COM.    MACDONOUGH.  357 

on  life — you  feel  that  OTHERS  may  die,  but  a  few  paces  ahead, 
and  you,  too,  may  find  a  grave  sunk  across  your  path.  If  you 
have  yet  the  great  work  of  saving  your  souls  to  accomplish,  let 
your  action  be  immediate ;  trust  it  not  to  an  unknown  hereaf 
ter  ;  leave  it  not  to  the  agony  of  a  dying  hour,  or  to  that  apathy 
still  nearer  the  fatal  moment. 

The  youth  is  cut  down  in  the  midst  of  his  hopes,  and  the  aged 
dies  with  his  infirmities :  the  lowly  perish,  and  the  mighty  are  laid 
in  the  dust :  one  and  another  departs  from  our  midst  NEVER  to 
return — coffin  rumbles  after  coffin,  to  join  the  dark  caravan  of 
death  :  the  shroud  of  the  insatiate  grave  hath  mantled  down  to 
its  voiceless  recess  the  mates  of  our  childhood,  the  guides  of 
our  youth,  the  companions  of  our  riper  years.  Those  that 
moved  with  us,  can  no  longer  share  in  our  friendship, — those 
that  soared  above  us,  have  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  our  ven 
eration. 

Where  now  is  he  whose  hymn  of  triumph  once  floated  over 
the  waters  of  the  North  ?  There  is  a  wail  on  the  ocean  deeper 
than  the  sighing  of  the  wind  through  the  vessel's  shrouds! 
There  are  tears  there,  coursing  the  cheeks  of  hardy  mariners, 
more  quick  and  scalding  than  those  which  fall  over  common  dust. 
The  banner  that  floated  in  triumph,  is  now  the  shroud  of  the 
hero !  Alas  !  the  Christian,  patriot,  hero,  is  no  more  !  His 
desolate  house  is  now  more  desolate  still.  The  countenance 
that  gladdened  it  had  passed  away, — the  eye  that  would  greet 
him  was  closed  ere  it  startled  at  the  dark  coming  of  his  hearse. 
He  will  come  to  his  house — but  oh,  how  changed ! — his  foot 
step  will  not  echo  on  the  gloomy  threshold,  nor  his  voice  be 
heard  in  the  empty  hall !  The  cry  of  lamentation  will  be  heard 
then;  but  not  from  him — though  the  partner  of  his  bosom  is 
GONE — it  will  be  of  those  whose  hearts  are  breaking  for  them 
BOTH  ! 

His  strength  was  terrible  on  the  deck  of  battle — his  courage 
calm  and  even  where  the  dead  and  dying  were  a  hearse  for  the 


358  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

living1.  The  arm  of  the  Almighty  was  his  shield,  and  his  trust 
was  in  the  God  of  his  fathers.  I  heard  the  thunder  of  his  deck 
when  Albion  bowed  to  his  might ; — he  was  stern  in  the  conflict ; 
but  wept  at  its  close  o'er  the  valor  of  the  conquered  and  fallen. 
The  marvels  of  his  might  are  hymned  by  the  waves ;  and  their 
voice  will  be  heard  till  it  is  morn  in  the  grave. 


A  brief  Address  to  the  Cadets  of  the  Partridge  Military  Academy  at 
the  Funeral  Services  of  Mr.  Ralph  A.  Wikojf,  a  Member  from  Ope- 
lousas,  Louisiana. 

BUT  a  few  days  since  and  WIKOFF  moved  among  us  the  man 
liest  of  us  all !  The  glow  of  his  warm  cheek,  the  movement  of 
his  sinewy  arm,  the  bound  of  his  measured  tread,  all  told  how 
strongly  life  dwelt  within  him.  But  now  he  lies  there,  pressed 
down  under  the  cold  hand  of  death ! 

He  will  never  again  be  seen  gliding  from  his  apartment  to  fill 
his  place  in  your  ranks ;  the  sound  of  his  footstep  will  never 
again  answer  to  the  deep  roll  of  the  morning  drum !  That  re 
veille  shall  beat,  but  he  will  not  arouse  him  from  his  rest.  He 
has  laid  aside  his  martial  dress  for  the  cold  drapery  of  the  grave. 
Oh,  WIKOFF  !  who  can  think  of  thee,  of  thy  sun-bright  hopes, 
the  promise  of  thy  manly  virtues,  the  pledges  of  thine  exalted 
worth,  and  not  dissolve  in  grief  over  thy  untimely  end!  who  that 
saw  thee  die,  and  heard  thy  latest  prayer,  but  thinks  of  heaven ! 

Dear  departed  one,  no  parent  with  trembling  anxiety  bent  over 
thy  dying  couch ;  no  sister  with  tender  assiduity  anticipated  thy 
every  want ;  no  brother  was  near  to  hear  thy  last  request :  thy 
dying  couch  was  spread  in  a  stranger-land,  but  there  were  those 
about  thee  strongly  attracted  by  thy  worth ;  those  who  thrilled 
at  every  hope  of  life,  and  shod  tears  feelingly  and  fast  when  they 
closed  thy  dying  eyes ;  and  there  are  those  who  with  breaking1 
hearts,  will  hold  thee  in  long  remembrance.  Soldier,  scholar, 
friend,  companion,  rest !  rest! 


ADDRESS   AT  THE  GEAVE  OF   WIKOFF.  359 

Comrades  of  WIKOFF  !  ye  who  arose  with  him  at  the  earliest 
light,  and  with  him  stood  in  solemn  pause  while  we  breathed 
our  morning  prayer  to  heaven ;  ye  who  with  him  labored  away 
the  hours  of  light  in  the  deep  drift  of  thought,  and  with  him 
kindled  the  lamp  over  the  march  of  some  mighty  mind ;  come 
ye  around  his  hearse,  gather  close  about  his  coffined  clay,  for 
though  dead  he  speaks  to  each  of  you,  "  What  thou  doest,  do 
quickly."  Who  can  withstand  the  energy  of  those  words  ?  Oh, 
thou  pale  oracle  of  death !  it  were  treason  not  to  hear  thee  now. 
"  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly."  Yes,  there  is  an  emphasis  in 
those  words  redouble~H  by  him  gone  so  young  in  life  to  the  cold 
mantling  of  the  shroud. 

Who  is  there  among  your  ranks,  more  vigorous  in  your  limbs, 
more  sanguine  in  your  hope  of  many  days,  than  WIKOFF  ?  None  I 
His  was  a  strength  that  seemed  to  hold  no  parley  with  disease, 
no  compromise  with  the  infirmities  of  our  nature.  But  he  is  there 
relaxed  in  death !  We  must  go  and  consign  him  to  the  remorse 
less  grave ;  we  shall  awake  over  him  our  volleyed  thunder,  but 
he  will  sleep  on  till  the  trump  of  God  summon  him  to  the  judg 
ment-bar. 

Who  is  there  among  you  not  prepared  to  follow  WIKOFF  ? — 
Hear  him,  for  he  speaks  to  you — "  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly." 
You  may  be  the  one  to  companion  him  in  the  grave.  Then  that 
scene  after  death — oh,  that  undying  soul ! — that  spirit  stamped 
with  the  immortal  image  of  its  Maker ! — if  unprepared  for  heaven, 
whither  with  all  its  boundless  capacities  can  it  go  ?  Dislodged 
from  earth,  an  outcast  from  God — it  must  lie  down  in  eternal 
anguish ! 

But  I  hear  a  voice  from  the  recesses  of  that  shroud,  crying, 
"What  thou  doest,  do  quickly."  It  speaks  to  all — to  you  who 
totter  under  the  infirmities  of  age,  to  you  who  walk  erect  in  the 
stable  strength  of  manhood,  to  you  who  are  in  the  morning  and 
growing  vigor  of  life,  for  the  grave  is  crowded  with  your  equals. 
And  you  may  be  the  next  over  whom  the  pall  of  that  silent  realm 


360  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

will  be  spread.  The  character  which  you  carry  with  you  to  the 
grave,  you  will  carry  with  you  to  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ. 
You  will  not  erase  one  of  its  darker,  or  increase  one  of  its  lighter 
shades. 

When  the  clods  cease  to  rumble  on  the  coffin,  there,  evermore, 
all  is  coldness,  darkness,  silence,  death !  The  busy  world  may 
move  above  them,  but  they  know  it  not !  The  worm  of  corrup 
tion  may  revel  in  their  shroud,  but  they  know  it  not !  Affection 
may  go  there  to  linger  and  to  weep,  but  they  know  it  not !  Pro 
fane  levity  may  go  there  and  trample  them  down,  but  they  know 
it  not !  Those  whom  they  left  here  among  the  living,  may  go 
down  on  the  cold  hearse  to  join  them,  but  there  will  be  no  ques 
tion,  no  greeting,  no  reply :  they  are  laid  into  the  silence  and  im 
mutability  of  death !  But  ye  are  still  among  the  living,  and  I 
hear  a  voice  again,  and  last  from  the  tenant  of  that  shroud — 
"  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly."  Are  we  silent  and  motionless 
still  ?  Is  there  no  one  who  will  struggle  for  the  life  of  his  soul  ? 
Oh,  the  quietude  of  this  fancied  security  is  the  noiseless  harbin 
ger  of  ruin.  The  water  is  stillest  near  the  verge  of  the  precipice. 
While  I  am  speaking,  the  icy  hand  of  death  may  be  settling  down 
upon  some  one  in  this  assembly.  Lay  that  hand  to  your  heart ; 
if  it  b.eat  again,  spend  that  breath  in  prayer  for  pardoning  mercy ! 


A    PLEA    FOR   THE    GREEKS, 

THERE  is  a  point  in  human  suffering  beyond  which  endurance 
is  impossible.  At  this  point  nature  will  either  struggle,  gasp, 
and  expire,  or  with  one  mighty  effort  burst  the  bonds  which  sub 
ject  her  to  suffering;  while  every  element  that  has  contributed 
to  her  woe  seems  only  to  have  curbed  her  energies  for  a  more 
intense  reaction.  Greece  had  reached  that  point,  but  her  last 
convulsion  burst  her  bonds,  as  the  struggling  volcano  rends  with 
its  throes  the  rock-ribbed  mountain.  Greece  had  broken  the 


A   PLEA   FOE   THE   GREEKS.  361 

serpent  folds  in  which  she  was  bound,  and  struggled  into  freer 
existence ;  but  in  her  last  desperate  struggle  she  roused  up  a 
foe  whose  character  can  be  portrayed  only  by  emblems  drawn 
from  the  world  of  fiends.  Thrilled  with  young  life,  her  heart 
bounded  with  the  joys  of  her  infancy;  but  with  the  first  swell  of 
transport  gushed  her  life-blood  to  the  sabres  of  her  enemy.  She 
prayed  for  mercy,  but  received  a  deeper  wound;  she  fled  for 
protection  to  the  horns  of  her  altars,  but  they  were  hung  with 
the  mangled  bodies  of  her  priests;  she  fled  to  the  tombs  of  her 
forefathers,  but  the  violated  dead  told  the  fate  of  the  living.  The 
shades  of  Thermopylae,  Platea,  and  Marathon  begin  to  rise  around 
her,  bringing  with  them  ten  thousand  images  of  the  past,  re 
vealed  with  a  dying  glory  that  still  linger  upon  them. 

Entranced  amid  these  visions  of  her  ancient  might,  Greece  is 
herself  again.  One  spontaneous  universal  rush  of  feeling  thirsts 
for  the  dread  onset — the  wild  storm  that  shall  beat  upon  her 
grave,  or  subside  into  the  peaceful  hours  of  returning  liberty. 
But  courage  is  not  strength;  the  heaven-ascending  eagle  the 
thunder-cloud  will  sometimes  dash  to  the  ground.  Greece  has 
launched  herself  upon  a  wave  too  boisterous  for  her  feeble  bark ; 
but  shall  her  noble  daring  be  her  ruin  ?  Shall  this  bold  expres 
sion  of  her  courage  be  the  signal  of  her  destruction  ?  Shall  this 
nation,  professing  the  same  faith  with  ourselves,  and  struggling 
for  the  same  freedom  which  we  enjoy,  be  permitted  to  perish 
when  her  salvation  lies  in  the  breast  of  the  American  people  ? 
Greece  has  looked,  and  still  looks  to  us  for  aid. 

Tell  me  not  that  she  is  a  faithless  people,  and  unworthy  of  our 
co-operation.  There  may  be  individuals  bearing  the  name  of 
Greeks,  who  have  betrayed  the  confidence  reposed  in  them,  but 
this  is  not  the  characteristic  of  the  nation.  The  iron-handed 
oppression  that  has  crumbled  to  dust  the  monuments  of  their 
pride,  may  have  obscured,  but  it  has  not  destroyed  their  national 
faith.  That  nation,  which  has  for  ages  withstood  the  tide  of 
barbarism  that  has  swept  down  in  its  desolating  track  the  shrines 

16 


MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 


and  temples  of  every  other  realm,  is  not  made  up  of  treachery. 
That  people  who  have  for  eighteen  centuries  maintained  the  reli 
gion  of  the  Cross  at  the  expense  of  every  thing  else,  and  who 
have  fed  their  altars  with  their  own  blood,  have  not  been  martyrs 
to  a  faith  devoid  of  influence  on  their  national  character. 

No ;  Greece  is  in  ruins,  but  her  ruins  bear  the  bright  impress 
of  her  integrity.  Tell  me  not  that  she  is  a  cruel,  savage  people, 
and  undeserving  our  compassion.  I  know  that  sometimes  the 
shaft  aimed  at  her  own  vitals  drank  the  blood  of  her  captives. 
But  was  there  no  provocation  for  this  dark  deed  ?  There  was : 
it  is  revealed  on  that  long  road  on  which  her  fathers  travelled 
down  in  chains  to  their  graves ;  it  is  traced  in  the  ashes  of  her 
temples,  palaces,  and  shrines ;  it  is  heard  in  the  wail  of  her 
widows  and  orphans;  it  is  murmured  in  the  dying  exclamations 
of  her  chiefs ;  it  knells  from  the  prison  and  the  block ;  it  per 
vades  that  voiceless  woe  that  weeps  where  Scio  is  no  more,  but 
which  was  once  animate  with  beings  young,  beautiful,  and  gay, 
all  murdered  to  appease  a  malice  that  riots  in  the  misery  it  can 
inflict.  Where  is  the  human  bosom  in  which  vengeance  could 
have  slept  amid  such  sights  and  sounds  as  these  ?  She  must  have 
been  more  or  less  than  mortal  not  to  have  kindled  into  retribu 
tion. 

Ask  me  not  why  Europe  does  not  aid  the  Greeks ;  the  answer 
is  sealed  up  in  the  dark  articles  of  the  Alliance — that  grave  of 
liberty.  Europe  has  injured  Greece ;  she  has  torn  from  her  every 
memorial  of  her  ancient  name,  but  her  very  being.  Europe  has 
injured  Greece ;  she  has  urged  her  into  a  war,  at  perilous  odds, 
with  a  merciless  foe :  Europe  has  held  out  pledges  of  aid  and 
confederation  in  this  struggle,  which  she  never  meant  to  redeem. 
Chilled  into  a  cruel,  unnatural  insensibility,  beneath  the  blighting 
influence  of  the  Alliance,  she  sees  without  an  emotion  this  fairest, 
loveliest  star  in  all  the  heaven  go  down  forever.  But  what  has 
the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  Europe  to  do  with  our  duty] 

Greece  looks  to  us  for  aid :  she  looks  to  us  for  a  generous 


PLEA   FOB  THE   GREEKS.  363 

expression  of  our  love  for  liberty,  in  a  prompt  endeavor  to  re 
lieve  her  in  this  hour  of  distress.  She  looks  to  us  as  the  first 
nation  that  has  ever  risen  to  rational  permanent  independence  ', 
and  having  gained  our  own  freedom,  and  tasted  the  sweets  of 
liberty,  she  does  not  suppose  us  capable  of  indifference  when 
struggling  for  her  very  being,  dying  for  the  common  rights  and 
privileges  of  man.  Where  is  our  gratitude  1  Has  not  Greece 
enriched  us  with  the  productions  of  her  immortal  genius  ?  Have 
we  not  received  from  her  a  clue  to  every  thing  that  raises  us 
above  stupid  barbarism  ?  And  yet  we  are  satisfied  with  doing 
nothing  for  her. 

While  we  have  been  shouting  through  our  streets  the  man 
who  nobly  dared  to  embark  his  life  and  fortune  for  us  in  our 
struggle  for  independence,  we  forget  the  children  of  those  in 
trepid  heroes  who  first  taught  us  the  use  of  the  scimeter  and 
shield,  and  from  whose  literature  we  derived  our  earliest  notions 
of  liberty.  We  have  been  deceived  in  relation  to  Greece  :  while 
we  have  supposed  her  prosperous,  she  has  rapidly  declined  in  her 
means  of  resistance  ;  this  is  the  most  perilous  period  of  her  long 
conflict.  Her  legislators  are  without  the  means  of  carrying  their 
determinations  into  effect ;  her  armies,  thinned  by  death,  are 
without  the  means  of  subsistence ;  her  crops  are  destroyed  by 
the  enemy  before  they  can  arrive  at  maturity ;  no  cheering  pros 
pect  meets  her  at  home,  no  sympathy  greets  her  from  abroad ; 
and  to  all  human  appearances  she  must  perish,  unless  there  is  a 
speedy  redeeming  energy  manifested  in  this  country. 

It  is  in  vain  to  tell  us  what  Greece  might  have  been,  or  might 
have  done,  had  she  not  thrown  the  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  the 
enemy  :  the  gauntlet  is  thrown,  the  die  is  cast,  and  that,  too,  in 
a  desperate  uncertainty ;  the  storm  she  has  raised  has  become 
too  wild  for  her  control ;  her  courage  is  far  in  the  advance  of  her 
strength.  Liberty  or  death  is  drawn  in  wild  characters  on  the 
stern  aspect  of  each  Greek :  he  will  be  free,  or  the  ground  on 
which  he  stands  shall  be  his  sepulchre. 


364  MEMOIR   OF    WALTER   COLTON. 

They  have  been  driven  to  this  determination  by  sufferings 
which  mock  description.  Roused  from  their  slumbers  at  mid 
night,  they  have  been  driven  into  hopeless  flight;  their  ears 
stunned  with  the  cries  of  the  suffering,  and  the  yell  of  their 
savage  murderers ;  while  the  flames  of  their  own  dwellings  were 
kindled  over  their  retreat,  traced  in  blood ;  their  parents,  their 
wives,  their  children,  every  object  around  which  affection  could 
linger,  torn  from  them ;  their  very  prayers  mocked  by  the  horrors 
of  a  lingering  death.  Outraged  humanity  could  endure  no  longer ; 
goaded  to  desperation,  they  have  drawn  their  battle  glaives,  and 
swear  never  to  sheathe  them  again,  till  they  have  exterminated 
these  bloodhounds  from  the  lands  of  their  fathers ;  or  they  will 
sacrifice  their  lives  to  the  nobleness  of  their  purpose.  They  will 
find  an  asylum  from  these  sufferings,  though  it  is  in  the  grave,  and 
the  last  Greek  will  lie  in  his  gore,  before  he  will  consent  again 
to  be  the  slave  of  a  Turk. 

Yes,  let  that  nation  perish  at  once,  rather  than  groan  out  a 
miserable  existence  under  the  Ottoman  yoke ;  let  the  tempest 
that  now  beats  upon  her,  bear  away  with  it  every  relic  of  her 
departed  glory,  every  memorial  of  her  present  existence.  Never 
again  let  the  eloquence  of  the  orator  thunder  through  her  forum, 
the  song  of  the  minstrel  gladden  her  halls,  or  the  incense  of 
gratitude  ascend  from  her  altars ;  let  every  stream  that  wanders 
through  her  murmur  only  of  ruin,  every  breeze  that  sweeps  from 
the  Morea  to  the  mountain-top,  tell  only  of  ghastly  desolation, 
every  wave  that  breaks  upon  her  shore,  rumble  like  clods  on  the 
coffins  of  the  dead. 


EDITORSHIP   AT  WASHINGTON.  365 


CHAPTER  II. 

LIFE    IN    WASHINGTON,    AND    ENTRANCE    UPON    THE    DUTIES 
OF   A    NAVY   CHAPLAIN    ON    SHIP    AND    SHORE. 

"  THE  seeds  of  wisdom  early  sown  by  the  paternal  hand, 
Thou  hast  borne  through  all  thy  wanderings  wide  over  sea  and  land." 

IN  the  year  1830  Mr.  Colton  resigned  the  Middle- 
town  Professorship ;  partly  from  a  want  of  confidence 
in  the  system  of  mental  and  moral  discipline  there 
pursued.  At  the  instance  of  Jeremiah  Evarts,  Esq., 
and  other  friends  of  the  American  Board  of  Commis 
sioners  for  Foreign  Missions,  he  proceeded  to  Wash 
ington,  and  undertook  the  editorship  of  the  Ameri 
can  Spectator  and  "Washington  City  Chronicle.  The 
main  object  of  its  establishment  was  to  controvert 
and  prevent  the  policy  recommended  by  President 
Jackson,  in  regard  to  the  removal  of  the  Georgia  In 
dians,  threatening  as  it  did  the  very  existence  of  the 
American  Mission  among  those  Indians,  and  involv 
ing  our  nation  in  a  breach  of  faith. 

With  this  end  in  view,  able  articles  were  written 
both  by  himself  and  by  Mr.  Evarts,  the  signal  ability 
and  correctness  of  which  were  by  no  means  to  be 
measured  by  their  success.  The  policy  of  the  Ka- 


366  MEMOIR   OF  WALTER  COLTON. 

tional  Executive  was  consummated,  and  the  function 
of  the  Spectator  ceased.  While  thus  employed,  and 
after  his  release  from  editorial  duty,  Mr.  Colton  was 
engaged  for  a  little  time  in  the  pulpit  of  the  church 
where  it  was  the  habit  of  General  Jackson  to  attend 
public  worship.  An  acquaintance  so  formed  ripened 
into  friendship,  notwithstanding  the  contrariety  be 
tween  the  parties  in  politics.  Mr.  Colton  was  fre 
quently  an  invited  guest  at  the  White  House ;  and 
the  President  becoming  aware  of  his  infirm  health, 
ere  long  offered  him  the  choice  of  a  chaplaincy  in 
the  Navy,  or  a  foreign  consulate. 

He  chose  the  former,  as  better  meeting  his  hopes 
of  restoration  to  health,  and  was  at  once  nominated 
by  General  Jackson  to  the  chaplaincy  of  the  "West 
India  squadron.  Hostility  was  immediately  aroused 
to  this  appointment  among  the  friends  of  the  Ad 
ministration,  and  a  strong  remonstrance  against  it, 
numerously  signed,  was  forwarded  to  Washington 
from  New  York.  The  argument  urged  against  it 
was  the  public  opposition  of  the  nominee  to  the  In 
dian  Removal  policy  of  the  Administration,  then  in 
the  process  of  fulfilment.  The  President,  however, 
was  inflexible :  he  knew  his  man,  and  with  charac 
teristic  decision  took  the  responsibility. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  entered  upon  the  duties 
of  a  United  States  Naval  Chaplain  on  the  29th  of 
January,  1831,  leaving  New  York  on  that  day  in  the 
U.  S.  ship  Yincennes,  for  St.  Thomas,  Cuba,  and  Pen- 


SATIRICAL   RHYMES    FROM   WASHINGTON.  367 

sacola.  His  moral  courage  and  fidelity  on  one  occa 
sion  while  at  the  latter  station,  in  exposing  the 
malfeasance  in  a  certain  affair  of  the  Spanish  In- 
tendant,  came  near  to  losing  him  his  life.  Through 
Divine  Providence,  it  was  the  chaplain's  deter 
mined  mien,  and  the  sight  of  his  finger  upon  a  re 
volver  in  self-defence,  that  deterred  his  •  angry  ene 
my,  when  he  met  him,  from  the  vengeance  he  was 
meditating. 

Mr.  Colton  returned  from  this  cruise  to  "Wash 
ington  in  the  autumn  of  1831,  his  health  by  no 
means  good.  A  characteristic  and  amusing  work 
of  his  the  ensuing  winter  was  a  satirical  jeu  d'es- 
prit  for  one  of  the  New  England  newspapers,  en 
titled 

FROM   A   POETICAL  CORRESPONDENT. 

WASHINGTON  CITY,  Feb.  2d,  1832. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  date,  you  see,  from  this  great  city, 

In  which  the  wonderful  of  all  the  nation 
Assembled  are ;  also  the  gay  and  witty 

Of  Europe's  courts — a  sort  of  delegation — 
As  Randolph  was,  presenting  his  credentials 
To  Monsieur  Nicholas,  in  regimentals. 

You'll  think  it  strange — but  then  the  people  here 

Live  on  pure  politics — they  boil,  or  bake, 
Or  stew,  or  fry,  or  brew  them  into  beer, 

Just  as  their  different  tastes  suggest : — some  make 
Them  into  puddings,  but  all  eat  them  hot — 
"  If  'tisn't  so,  I  wish  I  may  be  shot !" 


368  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

Congress  are  sitting  daily  for  the  nation : — 
The  House  is  making  speeches,  counting  noses, 

To  quash  a  ruinous  appropriation — 

One  which,  if  rightly  I  am  told,  proposes 

The  building  of  a  Light-house,  whose  erection 

Involves  a  constitutional  objection. 

The  Senate  now  are  on  the  Tariff-laws, — 

Friend  Clay  has  spoken,  going  the  whole  hog ; 

Hayne  is  opposed  to  their  minutest  clause, 
Declaring  them  a  vile  and  loathsome  clog 

Upon  the  nation's  true  prosperity — 

A  curse  to  us  and  our  posterity. 

Sir  Isaac,  whom  the  Granite  State  has  placed 
Wrong  end  afore,  as  Paddy  did  his  saddle 

Bestride  the  Body  when  he'd  been  disgraced, 
Was,  yesterday,  delivered  of  a  twaddle, 

Which,  if  there's  aught  of  clearness  in  my  vision, 

Will  scarce  survive  the  pains  of  parturition. 

The  President  has  had  a  ball  extracted, 

From  which  arm  I  can't  say,  but  that's  no  matter ; 

He  got  it  in  the  gallant  part  he  acted 

With  one  who,  afterwards,  raised  such  a  clatter 

About  a  certain  Oriental  Room — 

Extravagantly  furnished  with  a  broom  ! 

The  first  great  Cabinet,  at  whose  formation 

A  darkening  cloud  of  Jackson  caps  were  thrown  up. 

And  which,  at  first,  electrified  the  nation, 

Has,  by  a  woman's  stratagem,  been  blown  up  : — 

One  fragment  flew  with  such  prodigious  motion, 

It  never  lighted  till  it  crossed  the  ocean  ! 


SATIRICAL   RHYMES   FROM   WASHINGTON.  369 

Calhoun,  for  love  of  mineralogy, 

Has  sent  for  this  wild  fragment :  he  is  right — 
For  it  has  not  the  least  analogy 

In  all  our  choicest  cabinets,  and  might, 
If  lectured  on  in  some  New  England  college, 
Add  some  new  theories  to  human  knowledge. 

It  is  the  rarest  mineral — all  sides — 

And  yet,  in  fact,  it  has  no  sides  at  all ; 
Sharp-angled,  yet,  when  tested,  glides 

From  'neath  the  chisel  like  a  polished  ball ; 
It  is  translucent,  too,  and  yet  'twould  seem 
As  if  the  surface  only  drank  the  beam. 

It  has  the  strangest  virtues ;  for  its  touch 
Will  make  a  man  forget  his  bosom  friends, — 

The  beings  he  could  never  love  too  much 
He  now  regards  as  little  less  than  fiends ; 

And  such  a  powerful  charm  is  on  him  thrown, 

He  thinks  of  naught  on  earth  except  that  stone ! 

Our  Georgia  friends  have  chained  with  thieves  and  knaves 
Two  of  those  curious  missionary  preachers, 

Who  oddly  think  that  red  men  are  not  slaves, 
And  that  the  Georgians  are  overreachers : — 

Georgia  is  right — the  Bible  was  not  given 

To  show  a  Cherokee  the  road  to  heaven ! 

'Tis  past  dispute,  an  Indian  has  no  claim 

To  aught  his  patrimonial  lands  may  yield, 
Unless  it  be  a  little  flying  game  ; 

And  when  the  rascal  dares  to  dig  his  field 
For  gold,  though  it  should  be  his  homestead  lot, 
Lumpkin  should  have  him  either  hung  or  shot. 
16* 


370  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

Congress  will  sit,  'tis  said,  till  next  September : 
Two  hundred  bills,  at  least,  are  on  the  table ; 

And  then,  you  know,  each  inexperienced  member 
Is  primed  with  fifty  speeches,  each  a  cable, 

Which  must  by  its  interminable  length 

Make  up  for  its  deficiency  in  strength. 

'Twould  save  much  money,  and  more  time, 
To  get  a  gun  that  works  by  fire  and  steam, 

And  then,  let  every  member  load  and  prime 
With  all  the  speeches  he  can  write  or  dream ; 

For  ninety  thousand,  by  this  patent  power, 

If  Perkins  's  right,  are  shot  off  in  an  hour ! 

A  member  moved  the  use  of  Congress  Hall 
To  Mr.  Marsh,  to  hold  a  temperance  meeting : 

Now  one  would  think  from  love,  or  shame,  that  all 
Would  give  this  scheme  a  sort  of  friendly  greeting ; 

But  many  cried  out,  "  No  !" — thinking  the  body 

Required,  at  times,  a  little  jog  from  toddy ! 

The  vote  was  carried :  when  the  ayes  and  noes 
Were  counted,  it  was  laughable  to  see 

How  Speaker  Stevenson  detected  those 
Who  voted  on  the  opposition  :  he 

Just  cast  a  glance  upon  each  rosy  face, 

And  gave  the  tippling  vote  its  proper  place. 

Some  great  men  here  are  like  a  wild  youth,  rambling 
From  all  the  paths  of  peace  and  piety, 

Carousing,  drinking,  frolicking,  and  gambling, 
Till  they  are  sickened  with  satiety : 

Twould  seem  as  if  they  thought  a  public  station 

Cancelled  at  once  all  moral  obligation. 


SATIRICAL  RHYMES   FROM  WASHINGTON.  371 

A  man  of  titles  here,  not  having  been 

For  several  Sabbaths  to  his  mother  church, 

And  rightly  thinking  it  might  be  a  sin 
To  leave  his  whole  religion  in  the  lurch, 

Ordered  his  carriage  up,  and  sent  his — card — 

If  he  don't  get  to  heaven,  I  think  it's  hard ! 

Few  men  are  more  respected  here  than  Branch ; 

He  heeds  not  now,  and  never  did,  those  shocks 
Of  public  wrath  because  he  would  not  launch 

The  Pennsylvania  from  her  steady  stocks, 
And  send  to  sea  a  worn-out,  rotten  frigate, 
Without  a  single  cent  to  paunXor  rig  it! 

'Twas  whispered  here  last  night,  extremely  late, 

That  Mr.  Livingston  will  go  to  France — 
Mr.  McLane  be  transferred  to  the  State 

Department — Mr.  Rives  be  sent  to  dance 
Attendance  at  St.  James — and  Amos  Kendal 
Be  Treasury  Sec.— and  that  will  surely  end  all. 

These  are  exchanges,  I  mean  nothing  more, 

For  I  respect  these  men,  especially 
The  President,  since  very  long  before 

His  claims  were  canvassed,  even  in  Tennessee, 
I  fixed  on  him,  and  mentioned  my  intention 
Within  a  little  family  convention. 

It  is  the  fashion  here,  among  the  great, 

For  ladies,  when  they  make  their  morning  calls, 

To  stay  at  home :  the  carriage  goes  in  state, — 
A  wench  is  in  it,  but  so  thickly  falls 

Her  veil,  she's  quite  concealed ;  the  footman  leaves 

The  card,  and  separating  friendship  grieves ! 


372  MEMOIK   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

Another  fashion  is,  when  invitations 
"  To  meet  a  friend"  are  issued,  to  invite 

At  least  a  thousand — none  of  them  relations : 
The  beds  are  cast  up  garret  for  the  night, 

And  every  room,  instead  of  social  ease, 

Presents  a  crowded,  pent,  and  panting  squeeze. 

But  then  it  is  the  top-knot  of  the  fashion 
To  keep  a  parrot,  for  that  bird  was  given, 

With  all  its  prattling,  imitative  passion, 
To  bring  to  earth  the  dialect  of  heaven : 

The  very  bird  from  whose  celestial  stammer 

Our  mother  Eve  first  learnt  the  Hebrew  grammar. 

A  great  amusement,  with  the  frisking  fops, 
Is  waltzing :  this  is  a  whirling  dance, 

In  which  the  parties  move  around  like  tops — 
I  think  'twas  introduced  from  France, 

Perhaps  from  Italy,  or  Ghent,  or  Cadiz : 

At  any  rate,  it  seems  to  charm  the  Ladies. 

The  parties  stand  in  couples,  face  to  face, 
And  most  affectionately  near  each  other; 

The  lady  then,  as  if  she  caught  the  embrace 
Of  some  sweet  sister,  or  devoted  brother, 

Raises  her  arms,  while  he,  as  purely  chaste, 

Clasps  her  around  the  palpitating  waist. 

And  so  they  stand — her  warm  arms  softly  lying 
On  him — and  he,  circling  her  gentle  form — 

Their  eyes  are  in  each  other's — sweet  lips  sighing 
A  language  inarticulate  and  warm : 

They  seem,  as  love  for  them  had  but  one  riddle, 

And  now  they  whirl  in  time  to  Sambo's  fiddle ; — 


SATIRICAL   RHYMES   FROM    WASHINGTON.  373 

And  round  and  round  they  spin — an  easy  sweep 
Of  thrilling  limbs  and  mounting  blood,  while  she 

Tells  every  nerve  its  vestal  vow  to  keep, 
And  only  lets  it  off  this  once — while  he, 

At  every  freedom  which  he  feels  or  sees, 

Just  gives  her  little  waist  another  squeeze. 

Then  in  this  dance  the  parties  seem  so  free 

Of  all  embarrassment — so  unrestrained, 
Gentle,  and  loving — they  appear  to  be 

Made  for  each  other ;  not  to  be  enchained 
In  marriage  bonds — quite  a  superfluous  fashion, 
When  there  is  such  a  warmth  and  depth  of  passion  ! 

'Tis  whispered  slyly  that  the  President 

Is  soon  to  marry  off  another  niece — 
A  lovely  creature,  now  a  resident 

With  him : — Well,  in  these  piping  times  of  peace, 
'Tis  well,  perhaps,  for  men  to  think  of  marriage, 
And  ladies,  too,  if  they  can  keep  their  carriage. 

I  think  myself,  sometimes,  of  getting  married; 

But  when  I  look  around  me  for  a  minute, 
And  number  up  how  many  have  miscarried, 

Who  now  would  give  the  world  were  they  not  in  it, 
My  courage  fails  me:  so,  with  sigh  and  tear, 
I  put  the  matter  off  another  year ! 

The  truth  is,  that  I  cannot  bear  the  crying 

Of  a  child,  not  even  for  variety; 
But  then,  the  melancholy  thought  of  dying, 

And  sinking  from  the  surface  of  society 
Unwept,  as  falls  a  pebble  through  the  wave, 
Might  almost  break  the  slumbers  of  the  grave. 


374:  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

But  I  am  wandering  without  being  witty, 
And  that's  intolerable  :  I  think  a  person 

An  object  of  the  most  contemptuous  pity 

Who  imitates  the  style  of  James  Macpherson — 

Loose  and  erratic,  without  sense  or  vigor, 

And  robbing  heaven  and  hell  to  find  a  figure ! 

A  spirit's  waking  in  the  Old  Dominion, 

Strong  as  the  thunder  when  it  leaves  the  cloud, 

Breaking  the  chains  of  riveted  opinion, 

And  raising  thousands,  who  are  basely  bowed 

In  bondage,  to  the  cheering,  changeless  light, 

That  dawns  at  last  on  slavery's  bitter  night. 

May  this  strong  spirit  travel  through  the  land, 
Trampling  in  dust  the  fetters  of  the  slave, 

And  leading  forth  the  ransomed,  as  the  band 

That  hymned  their  triumph  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave 

Then  with  this  stain  effaced,  its  guilt  forgiven, 

Our  land  may  win  the  warmest  smile  of  Heaven ! 

'Tis  whispered  briskly  now,  that  R.  M.  Johnson 
Succeeds  the  little  man  of  Kinderhook : 

This  will  be  any  thing  but  "  Monsieur  Tonson" — 
For  sure  there's  not  a  simpering  breath  or  look 

Softens  the  Colonel,  in  a  single  spot — 

He's  stern  as  was  Tecumseh,  whom  he  shot. 

But  then  I  hope  the  Colonel,  should  he  sail 
As  our  august  ambassador  to  London, 

Will  not  attempt  to  run  a  Sunday  mail, 

Nor  make  the  English  think  that  they're  undone, 

Because  a  letter  pauses  on  its  way, 

While  one  can  get  to  church,  and  kneel,  and  pray. 


SATIRICAL   RHYMES    FROM   WASHINGTON.  375 

The  letters  which  are  written  from  this  city, 

Save  this  of  mine,  are  destitute  of  fact, 
As  any  wandering,  wild,  romantic  ditty ; 

They  show,  sometimes,  'tis  true,  a  little  tact, 
And  now  and  then  one  seems  extremely  grave — 
Which  is  a  bass  note  on  the  lying  stave. 

But  this  of  mine,  at  least,  shall  not  deceive  you — 
'Tis  true,  as  are  the  last  words  of  the  dying : 

I  know  there's  nothing  which  can  so  much  grieve  you 
And  your  fraternity,  as  would  a  lying 

Letter ;  or  one  which  barely  you  suspect 

To  be  conceived  or  colored  for  effect. 

Adieu ! — 'tis  late,  my  little  ones  are  all 
In  bed — bless  me ! — I've  none !  not  e'en  a  wife ! 

To  share  with  me  what  you  most  rightly  call 
The  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies  of  life. — 

Just  look  for  one  who's  tired  of  living  single, 

And  recommend — 

Your  faithful  friend— 

McFlNGAL. 


376  MEMOIR   OP   WALTER   COLTON. 


CHAPTER    III. 

CRUISE    IN    THE    MEDITERRANEAN,    AND    LIFE    AND    LABORS    IN 
THE    NAVY-YARDS. 

"  THY  words  have  come  from  many  a  clime,  to  many  a  human  ear ; 
Thy  pathway  on  the  Deep  has  been  in  danger  and  in  fear ; 
Ever  the  breath  of  prayer  went  up  on  wing  of  darkest  storm, 
And  daily  with  the  sailor  band  he  lowly  bent  the  form." 

EARLY  in  the  year  1832,  Mr.  Colton  was  ordered 
to  the  Mediterranean  in  the  U.  S.  Frigate  Constel 
lation,  Commodore  Read.  The  volumes  entitled 
"  Ship  and  Shore,  in  Madeira,  Lisbon,  and  the 
Mediterranean,"  and  "  Land  and  Lee  in  the  Bos- 
phorus  and  JEgean,"  together  with  the  "Notes  on 
France  and  Italy,"  in  this  volume,  prove  him  to 
have  been  no  idle  wanderer  along  the  classic  shores 
of  "  The  Great  Sea." 

During  the  three  years  of  his  absence  on  this 
cruise  he  also  visited  Paris  and  London,  and  arrived 
back  with  the  squadron  in  December  of  1834,  his 
health  still  infirm.  That  winter  he  gave  himself 
very  diligently  and  successfully  to  procuring  the 
passage  of  a  bill  by  Congress  for  increasing  the  pay 
of  Naval  Chaplains  from  six  hundred  and  fifty  a 


STATE   OF   ABSTRACTION.  377 

year,  to  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred  dollars,  when  on 
duty,  and  eight  hundred  when  off. 

In  the  spring  of  1835  he  was  assigned  to  the  Naval 
Station  of  Charlestown,  Mass.,  where  he  addressed 
himself  with  commendable  assiduity  to  the  duties  of 
his  post.  He  preached  regularly  once  on  the  Sab 
bath,  besides  other  labors  for  the  good  of  seamen, 
and  was  often  heard  in  the  pulpits  of  Boston  and 
Charlestown. 

An  intimate  friend  and  brother  says  of  him  at 
this  period,  that  he  lived  much  in  dream-land.  Al 
ways  more  or  less  addicted  to  ruminating,  he  was, 
during  a  year  or  two  of  his  stay  in  Boston,  almost 
entirely  buried  up  in  his  own  thoughts.  He  became 
extremely  absent-minded ;  and  ludicrous  things  are 
related  of  him  in  this  period.  He  lost  his  sym 
pathy  with  the  outward  world,  except  so  far  as  was 
absolutely  necessary  for  his  professional  routine ; 
and  he  seldom  opened  a  newspaper  or  book,  al 
though  his  sideboards  were  well  filled  with  choice 
volumes. 

"  I  have  often  gone  down  from  Andover  to  Boston, 
(says  his  brother  at  this  time,)  entered  his  room,  found 
him  sitting  in  his  old  arm-chair,  resting  his  head  upon 
his  left  arm,  his  fore-finger  against  his  left  temple, 
looking  upon  the  fire,  utterly  unconscious  of  my 
presence,  till  almost  a  blow  from  my  hand  brought 
him  to  his  senses.  Then  would  come  some  of  his 
keenest  sallies  of  wit  or  humor ;  he  was  just  in  the 

15 


378  MEMOIR   OF  WALTER  COLTON. 

vein.  His  friends  who  knew  him  best,  had  strong 
fears  lest  he  was  injuring  himself,  body  and  mind, 
by  such  a  course." 

Self-satisfied,  also,  that  he  was  doing  himself  harm, 
he  resolved  to  change  his  course.  He  betook  him 
self  again  to  books,  and  mingled  more  in  society.  A 
well-written  series  of  letters  on  slavery,  at  this  time, 
addressed  to  Dr.  Channing,  in  the  Boston  Courier, 
was  consequent  upon  this  change.  He  also  took 
hold  of  his  Sea  Journal  and  completed  its  prepara 
tion  for  the  press,  under  the  title  of  "  A  Visit  to 
Athens  and  Constantinople." 

About  the  same  time  he  spent  a  few  days  at  An- 
dover,  and  preached  in  the  Seminary  Chapel  on  Sab 
bath  morning,  and  at  the  Old  South  Church  in  the 
evening,  and  never,  it  was  said,  more  effectively. 
He  was  now  fairly  waked  from  his  sea  of  dreams, 
and  dangerous  as  had  been  his  indulgence,  that 
dreaming  may  not,  on  the  whole,  have  been  an  in 
jury  to  him,  being  stopped,  as  it  not  always  is,  at  a 
safe  point. 

Early  in  the  year  1837  he  was  appointed  Histori 
ographer  and  Chaplain  to  the  South  Sea  Surveying 
and  Exploring  Squadron.  He  studied  with  reference 
to  it  for  nearly  a  year,  when  the  reduction  of  the 
force  at  first  designed  for  the  Expedition,  and  the 
consequent  resignation  of  some  of  his  associates,  to 
gether  with  the  infirm  state  of  his  health,  making  it 
doubtful  if  he  could  bear  the  hardships  of  the  voyage, 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON  IN  WINTER.       379 

led  him  to  obtain  a  release  from  that  appointment. 
At  this  period,  being  in  "Washington,  he  edited  for  a 
number  of  months  the  Colonization  Herald. 

By  the  close  of  this  year  (1837)  he  returned  to 
Boston,  whence  he  playfully  wrote  to  his  brother 
Aaron,  at  Andover,  in  his  characteristic  manner,  as 
follows  : 

The  weather  has  been  intensely  cold  here ;  it  must  have  been 
still  more  severe  with  you,  for  we  are  in  the  sunny  basin  of  an 
Alpine  hollow,  compared  to  the  everlasting  avalanche  of  your 
condition.  Take  care  that  the  bubbling  founts  of  your  genius 
be  not  frozen  up ;  the  heart  may  gather  to  itself  an  ice  which  no 
sun  can  melt  away.  This  climate  is  fit  for  nothing  but  bears 
and  badgers,  and  such  other  animals  as  live  in  "  thick-ribbed  ice," 
and  dwell  "  in  cold  obstruction's  apathy."  I  wish  I  were  in  the 
South  of  France,  or  in  Naples,  which  Gibbon — looking  at  the 
evergreen  landscape,  and  the  burning  crater  of  Vesuvius — profane 
ly  pronounced  to  be  on  the  confines  of  Heaven  and  Hell.  If  my 
locomotives  be  not  utterly  ice-bound,  I  intend  to  make  you  a 
visit  this  winter,  and  shall  of  course  expect  to  find  you  delving 
into  the  intricacies  of  some  theological  mystery,  which  lies,  per 
haps,  beyond  the  ken  of  an  archangel.  What  fools  we  all  are  ! 
The  plain  and  practical  are  forgotten  in  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
obscure  and  useless.  Were  the  moon  to  come  so  near  our  earth 
that  it  could  be  reached  without  the  adventures  of  a  balloon,  few 
would  go  to  measure  its  mountains  or  wander  by  its  streams. 
There  would  be  no  difficulty  and  romance  in  the  expedition.  It 
is  just  so  in  reaching  heaven — the  true  path  is  too  plain  and 
simple.  But  persuade  mankind — and  it  might  easily  be  done — 
that  they  can  reach  the  blessed  world  by  a  descent  through  the 
centre  of  the  ocean,  and  you  would  see  them  pushing  off  in  their 
little  canoes  by  thousands.  Do  you  go  for  the  plain  and  practical. 


380  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

Soon  after  the  opening  of  1838,  Mr.  Colton  was 
assigned  to  the  Chaplaincy  of  the  Naval  Station  at 
Philadelphia,  where,  with  the  consent  of  the  Navy 
Department,  in  connection  with  two  or  three  able 
associates,  he  was  induced  to  unite  in  the  editorship 
of  the  Independent  North  American  newspaper. 
His  intended  track  and  aim  as  an  editor  were  early 
projected  in  the  following  leader : 

Instead  of  delineating  an  editorial  career,  from  which  we  may 
constantly  deviate,  and  holding  out  pledges  which  we  can  never 
redeem,  we  will  trace  the  outline  of  what  an  editor  should  be. 

A  man  who  conducts  a  public  journal  should  possess  a  sound, 
discriminating  mind.  He  should  be  able  to  seize  the  strong 
points  of  a  question,  and  enforce  them  with  his  whole  energy. 
He  should  be  able  to  hold  the  question  steadily  before  the  eye 
of  his  own  mind,  till  he  has  traced  it  out  in  all  its  ramifications, 
and  then  impress  it,  with  the  distinctness  of  life,  upon  the  intel 
lect  and  hearts  of  others.  He  should  be  able  to  weigh  moral 
evidence,  and  be  so  free  of  bias  and  prejudice  himself  as  to  let 
the  scale  turn  with  the  slightest  preponderance  of  probabilities. 

He  should  be  a  man  of  enlightened,  liberal  sentiments.  He 
may  have  principles  and  opinions  of  his  own,  but  they  should 
ever  be  those  conclusions  in  which  he  has  rested,  after  a  con 
scientious  improvement  of  all  the  light  and  information  within 
the  compass  of  his  faculties.  He  should  hold  his  most  favorite 
opinion  at  the  entire  disposal  of  evidence.  His  religious  creed 
should  catch  every  fresh  accent  that  may  break  from  the  oracles 
of  God.  His  political  faith  should  be  open  to  every  new  ray  of 
light  that  may  strike  it  from  the  whole  Universe  of  Mind. 

He  should  be  a  devoted  Patriot.  The  affection  that  binds 
him  to  his  country  should  be  as  unchanging  as  the  first  great 


THE   DUTIES   OF   AN   EDITOR.  381 

law  of  nature.  He  should  rejoice  in  feeling  himself  indissolubly 
wed  to  her  weal  or  woe,  and  stand  prepared  to  protect  her  in 
every  hour  of  adversity  and  peril.  He  should  ever  aim  to  cast  a 
true  and  constant  light  on  the  path  of  her  duty,  and  amid  all  the 
conflicts  of  party  jealousy  and  interest,  still  cling  to  his  country 
with  increased  devotion.  And  should  foreign  aggression  threaten 
the  land  of  his  pride,  it  should  ever  be  the  cherished  resolve  of 
his  heart,  that  the  ruthless  invader  of  her  peace  should  tread  over 
his  grave  before  he  could  effect  his  malignant  purpose. 

He  should  be  an  ardent  lover  of  virtue:  he  should  court  her 
sacred  presence ;  live  in  the  smiles  of  her  countenance,  feast  on 
her  unfading  beauty,  have  his  garments  redolent  with  her  fra 
grant  breath,  nor  attempt  to  lay  one  gem  on  her  shrine  that  has 
been  sullied  by  passion :  vice,  her  mortal  foe,  should  be  the  ob 
ject  of  his  direst  antipathies.  This  profane  harpy,  if  allowed  to 
come  within  the  compass  of  his  vision,  should  never  touch  the 
sacred  ermine  of  his  robe.  His  heart  should  be  so  nicely  attuned 
to  moral  excellence,  that  every  pure,  generous,  or  lofty  feeling 
reflected  upon  it  from  mankind,  will  make  it  discourse  eloquent 
music. 

He  should  be  an  ardent  lover  of  truth.  From  all  the  tumult 
and  conflict  of  human  opinion  he  should  ever  repair  to  the  quiet 
shrine  of  this  Divinity,  and,  laying  the  richest  offerings  of  his  in 
tellect  upon  her  altar,  listen  with  more  than  oriental  devotion  to 
her  infallible  dictates.  Every  word  should  be  treasured  in  his 
heart,  as  a  jewel  of  priceless  worth,  and  even  her  softest  whisper 
linger  in  his  memory,  as  the  last  words  of  one  whose  virtues 
have  passed  under  the  seal  of  immortality. 

He  should  be  a  man  of  a  generous,  forgiving  temper.  Nothing 
like  vindictiveness  should  ever  mingle  in  the  cup  of  his  nature, 
no  spirit  of  retaliation  ever  overcast  the  calm  sunshine  of  his  soul. 
Injured,  or  wantonly  misrepresented,  he  should  never  lose  his 
confidence  in  the  ultimate  and  impartial  convictions  of  man. 
Surrounded  by  the  convulsions  of  party  spirit,  he  should  be  like 


332  MEMOIR  OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

the  polar  star,  shedding  its  clear  and  steady  light  on  the  conflict 
and  the  storm. 

He  should  be  a  man  of  humane  sensibility.  His  heart  should 
be  vital  with  sympathy  for  the  needy,  and  overflowing  with  in 
born  eloquence  for  the  oppressed.  He  should  be  quick  to  discern 
the  half-concealed  intimations  of  modest  sufferance,  and  be  able 
to  read  the  tale  of  sorrow  in  the  tear  that  would  blot  it  out  His 
bosom  should  be  that  mirror  of  humanity  upon  which  every  form 
and  expression  of  grief  may  cast  its  undiminished  and  unex- 
aggerated  lineaments;  and  these  faithful  representations  he 
should  hold  up  to  the  eye  of  those  whose  charity,  like  his  own, 
will  not  evaporate  in  idle  declamation. 

He  should  take  a  deep  and  thrilling  interest  in  the  great  be 
nevolent  enterprises  of  the  age.  He  should  strive  to  cast  a 
steady  embankment  against  that  fiery  current  upon  which  his 
fellow-beings  are  reeling  in  drunken  delirium  to  perdition.  He 
should  succor  those  who  are  sacrificing  their  best  strength  in 
efforts  to  arrest  this  plague,  bringing  with  it  more  woes  and  sor 
rows  than  the  seventh  curse  that  lighted  on  Egypt.  He  should 
give  his  firm  assurances  to  the  men  who  are  laying  the  founda 
tions  of  those  institutions  where  the  helpless,  the  forsaken,  and 
the  insane  may  find  an  asylum  from  their  wretchedness. 

He  should  have  warm  words  of  encouragement  for  those  who 
would  wipe  from  our  national  character  those  guilty  stains  which 
point  unerringly  to  the  chain  of  the  slave,  and  the  profaned  rights 
of  our  common  nature.  He  should  strengthen  the  efforts  of 
those  who  would  rear  for  our  country  the  enlightened  and  vir 
tuous,  to  sustain  the  ark  of  our  holy  faith  when  those  who  now 
bear  it  shall  be  gathered  to  their  fathers.  He  should  send  a 
cheering  voice  to  those  who  will  not  rest  in  their  sacred  enter 
prise,  till  the  oracles  of  God  are  heard  in  every  human  habitation. 
His  spirit  should  be  abroad,  appealing  to  all  hearts,  raising  the 
torpid,  enlightening  the  ignorant,  strengthening  the  weak,  re 
lieving  the  oppressed,  encouraging  the  good,  awing  the  profane, 

16 


CONDUCT   IN   THE  EDITORIAL   CHAIK.  383 

till  righteousness,  mercy,  and  truth  make  an  Eden  of  earth,  and 
earth  an  emblem  of  Heaven. 

A  co-laborer  in  the  office  of  the  North  American,  *^ 
speaking  of  his  own  connection  with  Mr.  Colton,  in 
that  paper,  says  of  him  that  he  wrote  with  much 
care,  and,  indeed,  required  so  much  time  for  what  he 
composed,  that  he  could  not  attend  to  the  general 
duties  of  the  editorship.  "  His  articles  told  when 
they  were  finished,  and  were  of  great  value.  But  he 
did  not  incline  to  trouble  himself  beyond  the  writing 
of  one  or  two  articles  a  day :  he  would  rarely  look 
over  more  than  two  or  three  exchange  papers.  He 
was  always  pleasant,  often  inclined  to  say  but  little, 
generally  a  man  of  few  words  in  the  office,  and  never 
talked  fluently.  What  he  did  say  was  said  with 
emphasis,  and  had  point.  He  was  beloved  by  all 
who  were  in  the  office  of  the  North  American,  and 
regarded  as  a  noble-hearted  man."  . 

A  clerical  friend  of  Mr.  Colton's,  in  Philadelphia, 
gives  the  following  testimony  to  his  conduct  of  the 
North  American : — "  Though  a  secular  paper,  yet,  as 
its  gentlemanly  and  Christian  Editor,  he  so  molded 
its  moral  and  religious  influence  as  to  secure  for  it 
the  patronage  of  the  best  part  of  the  community. 
During  the  time  of  his  editorship,  it  was  my  pleasure 
to  see  him  almost  daily,  and  I  know  that  his  great 
motive  in  seeking  and  occupying  that  position  was 
not  mercenary,  but  that  he  might  be  the  instru- 


384  MEMOIR   OF    WALTER   COLTON. 

ment,  through  that  medium,  of  doing  more  extensive 
good." 

Although  he  was  far  from  possessing  all  the  habits 
or  health  to  make  him  the  patient  working  Editor  of 
a  Daily,  he  labored  assiduously  at  his  post,  and  con 
tinued  to  acquit  himself  reputably  in  that  position 
until  compelled  by  government  to  abandon  it  or  quit 
the  Navy.  This  was  owing  to  the  politics  of  the 
paper  being  contrary  to  those  of  the  Yice-Presi- 
dent  and  his  Administration,  into  whose  hands  the 
reins  of  power  passed,  at  Washington,  upon  the  un 
timely  death  of  General  Harrison. 

Mr.  Colton  very  wisely  chose  the  alternative  of 
quitting  the  Editorial  corps  of  the  North  American, 
rather  than  to  lose  his  commission  in  the  Navy.  He 
now  devoted  himself  almost  exclusively  to  the  duties 
of  his  Chaplaincy  at  the  Navy- Yard  and  Naval 
Asylum,  for  which  latter  he  procured  a  grant  from 
the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  for  an  organ,  a  Reading 
Room,  and  pecuniary  aid  in  his  efforts  for  promoting 
temperance  among  the  seamen.  He  preached  also, 
in  their  behalf,  very  frequently  in  the  city  churches. 
He  wrote,  moreover,  at  this  time,  a  vigorous  reply  to 
Bishop  Kenrick's  letter  on  the  School  Question, 
which  was  published  in  the  Quarterly  Protestant 
Review,  and  afterwards  in  pamphlet  form,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Bible  in  Public  Schools." 

In  the  month  of  June,  1843,  Mr.  Cotton's  filial 
sensibilities  were  severely  tried  in  the  death  of  his 


LETTER   ON   A   MOTHER'S   DEATH.  385 

beloved  Mother,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two.  She  was 
a  woman  of  excellent  sense,  clear  practical  judgment, 
and  of  a  most  amiable  and  cheerful  temper.  She  had 
been  a  fond  and  faithful  Mother  to  all  her  numerous 
offspring.  Walter  deeply  felt  her  death.  He  was 
another  instance  in  proof  of  the  remark,  which  will 
undoubtedly  hold  almost  universally  true,  that  every 
man  who  has  risen  to  eminence  will  be  found  to  have 
paid  a  marked  respect  to  his  mother  in  early  life. 
Walter  had  been  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  son,  and 
this  is  his  tribute  to  her  memory,  in  a  letter  to  his 
Father,  dated  Philadelphia,  June  20th,  1843 : 

MY  DEAR  FATHER  : — 

I  never-  knew,  till  this  hour,  the  full  force  of  those  ties  which 
bound  me  to  my  Mother,  and  which  still  bind  me  to  you.  It  is 
the  disruption  of  the  cord  that  tests  its  strength.  Our  dear 
Mother  has  gone !  We  shall  go  to  her,  but  she  will  not  return 
to  us;  and  yet  in  my  dreams  I  see  her  with  that  same  kind, 
cheerful,  maternal  look  which  she  always  wore.  How  meekly, 
yet  how  resolutely,  she  bore  up  against  disease,  and  at  last  tran 
quilly  committed  her  spirit  to  the  hands  of  Jesus !  She  was 
truly  a  Mother ;  she  was  such  in  the  largest  and  best  sense  of 
that  term.  She  had  room  in  her  heart  for  us  all;  she  never 
wearied  in  her  cares,  and  in  times  of  the  greatest  adversity  main 
tained  her  wonted  cheerfulness.  She  died  as  she  lived,  without 
an  enemy,  and  without  reproach.  She  died  in  the  Faith,  and  has 
gone  to  inherit  the  promises.  Your  loss,  dear  Father,  in  the 
death  of  Mother,  not  even  your  children  can  adequately  compre 
hend.  You  are,  indeed,  alone ;  yet  not  alone,  dear  Father,  for 
we  are  with  you,  and  we  cherish  for  you  a  love  and  respect  which 
we  shall  carry  with  us  to  our  graves.  The  more  lonely  your 

IT 


386  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

position,  the  more  endeared  do  you  become  to  us.  Our  filial 
affection  shall  take  the  place  of  that  which  they  felt  over  whom 
the  grave  has  closed.  It  is  but  a  few  years  ere  we  must  all  go 
the  way  whence  we  shall  not  return.  With  you  and  dear  de 
parted  Mother,  may  we  sleep  in  Jesus,  and  wake  to  a  happy 
resurrection.  What  was  once  our  Home,  is  now  a  Home  no 
more ;  Mother  is  not  there.  It  will  be  in  vain  to  try  to  make  it 
a  Home.  I  have  no  heart  for  the  effort.  I  think  it  well,  dear 
Father,  that  you  are  with  sister  Susan,  and  hope  the  arrange 
ment  will  be  permanent.  We  shall  all  feel  it  a  privilege  to  use 
our  means  and  best  efforts  to  promote  your  comfort. 

I  have  been  intending  to  write  you  for  a  long  time,  and  half 
reproached  myself  for  having  delayed  it.  It  might  have  been 
sorre  consolation  to  Mother;  but  she  had  higher  consolations  to 
sustain  her.  A  child  can  never  repay  a  parent's  care,  he  can 
never  requite  a  Mother's  love.  All  he  can  do  falls  immeasurably 
below  that  Love  which  watched  over  his  cradle,  nursed  him,  and 
cheerfully  submitted  to  weariness,  privation,  and  exhaustion,  to 
rear  him  into  youth  and  manhood.  And  then  a  Father's  care, 
his  hopes,  his  prayers !  What  can  repay  these  ?  Nothing ;  no, 
nothing  within  his  utmost  efforts.  He  can  only  look  up,  imbibe 
his  spirit,  and  imitate  his  virtues.  God  grant  I  may  be  able  to 
do  this.  I  would  send  my  tenderest  sympathy  to  all  my  Brothers 
and  Sisters.  We  are  all  bereaved,  deeply  bereaved.  But  we 
should  be  devoutly  grateful  in  our  sorrow,  that  our  dear  Mother 
was  spared  to  us  so  long,  and  that  our  venerated  Father  still 
lives.  Pray  for  us  all,  dear  Father,  that  this  great  affliction  be 
sanctified  to  us  for  our  good,  and  that  God  will  graciously  re 
member  us  in  that  day  when  he  shall  number  up  his  jewels. 

Your  dutiful  son, 

WALTER. 

In  the  year  1844  Mr.  Colton  was  elected  Anniver 
sary  Poet  for  the  Literary  Societies  in  the  Vermont 


LITERARY    LABORS   AND   MARRIAGE.  387 

University,  at  Burlington.  Speaking  of  this  play 
fully  to  his  brother,  and  of  his  other  literary  and  be 
nevolent  labors  at  that  time,  he  says,  "  I  have  waked 
up  from  my  Rip  Yan  "Winkle  sleep,  and  I  am  now 
going  for  action — for  doing  good — nor  do  I  mean  to 
slumber  again  until  that  last  sleep  into  which  the 
most  restless  must  at  length  sink." 

In  August  of  the  same  year  he  was  married  at 
Philadelphia,  to  a  lady  of  the  same  family  name, 
whose  traits  of  character,  and  cheerful,  sunny  temper 
he  found  eminently  congenial  with  his  own ;  and  her 
personal  charms  and  accomplishments  such  as  to 
make  his  conjugal  lot  eminently  felicitous.  In  the 
summer  of  1845  they  visited  together  his  friends  in 
Vermont. 

Mr.  Colton  was  in  a  genial  mood,  his  spirits  buoy 
ant,  and  his  health  much  better  than  usual.  His  wit 
on  the  way  was  keen  and  irrepressible,  his  humor 
salient  and  jocose ;  and  he  enjoyed  highly  the  ride, 
the  scenery,  the  people,  and  every  thing  he  met,  and 
he  made  all  about  him  happy  with  his  playful 
strokes  and  turns.  A  travelling  companion  says  of 
him  at  this  time :  "  Beyond  any  thing  I  ever  saw, 
strangers  were  taken  with  him  as  a  fellow-passenger. 
It  was  amusing  to  see  the  interest  he  awakened  in 
those  who  had  never  met  him  before.  He  was  the 
life  of  all  the  company." 

After  returning  from  the  Green  Mountains,  the 
remainder  of  the  summer  was  passed  at  watering- 


388  MEMOIR   OF   WALTEK   COLTON. 

places  on  the  seaboard.  From  Cape  May  we  find 
the  following  fanciful  correspondence  in  irony  for  the 
North  American : 

MESSRS.  EDITORS  : — The  people  at  the  Cape  have  been  thrown 
into  a  great  state  of  excitement  to-day,  by  some  of  the  most 
stupendous  phenomena  connected  with  the  ocean.  The  extreme 
coldness  of  the  last  night  was  accounted  for  by  the  discovery,  at 
daylight  this  morning,  of  an  enormous  iceberg,  moving  majesti 
cally  in  towards  the  Cape.  The  summits  of  the  soaring  mass 
were  lost  in  the  clouds ;  between  the  glittering  pinnacles  which 
seemed  to  pierce  the  blue  dome  of  heaven,  the  morning  star 
looked  forth  with  a  pale  and  troubled  aspect.  It  was  at  least 
ten  o'clock  before  the  sun  was  sufficiently  high  to  scale  its 
steeps;  at  last,  its  light  rushed  over  its  summits  with  the  breadth 
and  force  of  a  mighty  cataract.  All  its  cliffs  and  caverns  now 
became  visible,  and  threw  their  spectral  terrors  on  the  eye :  a 
wolf  was  seen  chasing  a  goat  among  its  crags ;  an  eagle  circled 
around  one  of  its  loftiest  turrets ;  while  a  vulture  had  pounced 
on  a  pig,  that  squealed  most  piteously  in  its  talons ! 

The  water  was  now  seen  to  heave  on  one  side  of  the  iceberg, 
and  immediately  a  succession  of  blows  was  given  it  which  shook 
the  whole  mountain  mass.  Judge  of  our  surprise  on  discover 
ing  that  this  mist-enveloped  battering-ram  was  an  enormous 
whale !  At  every  stroke  of  his  tail,  vast  sheets  of  pale  light 
were  thrown  from  the  iceberg,  which,  falling  on  the  faces  of  the 
spectators,  made  them  look  like  an  army  of  dead  men!  I  had 
read  that  the  whale  has  been  known  to  cut  a  Ship  of  the  Line 
in  two  with  a  single  stroke  of  his  tail,  but  still  had  no  concep 
tion  of  his  enormous  strength.  The  iceberg  shook  and  reeled 
under  its  blows  as  if  an  earthquake  had  hold  of  it  Every  blow 
was  followed  by  the  plunge  of  some  lofty  pinnacle  or  stupen 
dous  crag  into  the  ocean,  which  threw  up  clouds  of  spray,  over 
which  a  hundred  rainbows  stretched  their  magnificent  arches. 


CORRESPONDENCE  FROM   CAPE  MAY.  389 

At  this  moment  a  thunder-cloud  of  intense  darkness,  which 
had  been  hovering  more  remotely  from  the  scene,  stationed  it 
self  near  the  iceberg1,  and  began  to  play  upon  it  with  its  red 
bolts.  Splinters  of  ice  flew  like  arrows  in  every  direction,  and 
large  masses  whirled  away,  like  comets  from  the  sun,  with  white 
bears  still  clinging  to  them.  The  cloud  now  changed  its  posi 
tion,  and  unmasked  a  battery,  compared  with  which  the  war  of 
Waterloo  would  be  but  the  report  of  a  bursting  bubble.  The 
iceberg  was  split  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  disappeared  in  the 
tumultuous  waters. 

The  wild  animals  that  inhabited  it  were  seen  everywhere 
floating  on  the  waves.  They  made  immediately  for  the  Cape, 
but,  on  reaching  the  beach,  were  caught  and  secured  by  the  stout 
nets  which  are  used  here  for  catching  sturgeon.  Cages  are  now 
being  built  for  them,  and  they  will  soon  be  exhibited  as  the  Ice 
berg  Menagerie.  Never  before  has  zoology  achieved  such  a 
rich  acquisition.  One  man  devoted  to  this  science,  in  the  ec 
stasy  of  his  feelings,  went  to  turning  somersets.  The  most  cu 
rious  of  the  animals  caught  is  a  Mermaid.  She  resembles  a 
dark-eyed  Spanish  girl  of  sixteen:  her  raven  tresses  fall  round 
her  like  a  flowing  robe,  and  so  conceal  her  form,  that  one  of 
your  exquisites  made  love  to  her.  She  speaks  the  Arabic. 

Another  great  curiosity  is  the  Porphyrion — a  bird  known  to 
ancient  Greece,  but  not  heard  of  since.  It  is  about  the  size  of 
our  chanticleer,  unwebfooted,  snow-white  body,  with  blue  wings 
and,  red  crest.  Aristotle  says  of  this  bird :  "  It  kept  strict  watch 
over  the  married  women,  whose  indiscretions  it  immediately  de 
tected  and  revealed  to  their  husbands ;  after  which,  knowing  the 
revengeful  spirit  of  ladies,  it  very  prudently  hung  itself."  This 
bird  is  looked  upon  here  with  a  great  deal  of  suspicion  by  the 
ladies.  One  of  them  told  me  she  would  wring  his  neck  for  him 
the  first  time  she  got  a  chance. 

The  ocean  near  the  beach  was  again  suddenly  thrown  into 
commotion,  when  up  rose,  like  a  long  ridge  of  rocks,  the  Sea- 


390  MEMOIR   OF  WALTER  COLTON. 

serpent !  The  whale  that  had  lashed  the  iceberg  was  endeavor 
ing  to  strike  him  with  his  tail,  and  at  last  succeeded,  when  the 
serpent  threw  his  head  in  agony  some  thirty  feet  out  of  the 
water — the  very  lightning  flashing  from  its  forked  tongue.  With 
one  sweep  he  threw  himself,  life  an  enormous  Anaconda,  directly 
around  the  whale,  just  back  of  the  fore  fins.  At  each  convulsive 
constriction,  as  he  tightened  his  folds,  a  column  of  water  flew 
from  the  blowing  hole  of  the  whale  sky  high.  He  plunged  and 
reared,  canted  and  struggled,  to  extricate  himself  from  the  folds 
of  the  serpent,  but  in  vain.  At  last,  in  the  struggle,  the  ser 
pent's  head  had  come  near  his  own,  when  he  severed  it  with  his 
jaws  at  once  from  the  body !  A  torrent  of  blood  rushed  out 
which  incarnadined  the  sea  around  for  leagues.  The  folds  of 
the  serpent  only  tightened  themselves  the  more  in  his  death- 
convulsions,  and  the  whale  was  evidently  in  greater  agony  than 
before. 

At  this  moment  a  sword-fish  of  vast  size  and  strength  joined 
the  contest,  and  plunged  his  weapon,  now  on  this  side,  now  on 
that,  and  now  from  beneath,  into  the  whale.  A  stream  of  blood 
followed  every  lunge ;  the  convulsions  of  the  whale  grew  less, 
and  it  was  evident  that  life  was  fast  ebbing  away.  A  physician 
being  asked  if  he  did  not  think  the  whale  quite  dead,  said  he 
probably  was,  but  he  could  not  speak  positively  unless  able  to 
feel  his  pulse !  A  flood-tide  rising  some  fifteen  feet  higher  than 
usual,  now  rolled  the  whale,  with  the  serpent  around  him,  to  the 
beach,  and,  as  it  retired,  left  them  high  and  dry.  The  sword-fish, 
unable  to  extricate  his  weapon  from  its  last  lunge  where  it  had 
penetrated  a  bone,  was  also  borne  by  the  whale  to  the  shore. 
Several  yoke  of  stout  oxen  were  employed  to  disengage  the 
folds  of  the  serpent ! 

This  monster  measures,  from  tail  to  snout,  three  hundred  and 
fifty  feet !  It  has  thirty-seven  bumps,  each  shaped  like  a  bell 
with  a  clapper  in  it,  and  altogether  they  play  a  magnificent 
chime !  Start  one,  and  they  all  ring  in  concert.  They  are  now 


CORRESPONDENCE   FROM   CAPE   MAY.  391 

playing  a  sort  of  funeral  hymn !  The  skin  of  the  serpent  and 
these  bells  are  to  be  preserved  and  suspended  around  the  Ice 
berg  Menagerie.  Their  music  will  occasion  a  great  rush  of 
travellers  to  this  country  from  Europe.  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised  to  see  "  Little  Vic."  among  them. 

As  for  the  whale,  the  jaws  are  to  be  suspended  across  the 
Rocky  Mountains  as  a  sort  of  ladder  by  which  to  get  over  to 
Oregon !  The  stump  orators  have  taken  the  blubber,  and  the 
ladies,  as  might  have  been  expected,  have  seized  on  the  bone. 
The  weapon  of  the  sword-fish  is  to  be  sent  to  Captain  Tyler. 

P.  S. — The  Porphyrion  is  dead.  The  ladies  have  poisoned 
him! 

Yours  very  truly,  W.  C. 


392  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

DEPARTURE  FOR  THE  PACIFIC,  LIFE  AND  LABORS   IN    CALIFOR 
NIA,  AND  PRIVATE  CORRESPONDENCE. 

"  THRO'  orange  groves,  in  tropic  climes,  thou  hast  wandered  many  a  day, 
And  to  the  Ophir  land  of  gold  thou  early  ledd'st  the  way." 

AT  the  close  of  the  summer  of  1845,  on  returning 
to  Philadelphia,  Mr.  Colton  found  a  paper  from  the 
Navy  Department  ordering  him  forthwith  to  sea,  in 
the  frigate  Congress,  bound  for  the  Pacific.  He  at 
once  reported  himself  for  duty,  and  in  twenty-four 
hours  was  at  his  post  in  Norfolk, — home  and  all  its 
domestic  charms,  whose  silken  cords  were  now  fairly 
around  him,  exchanged  at  once  for  the  asperities  of  a 
man-of-war. 

A  letter  from  Norfolk  to  one  of  his  brothers  has 
this  pleasing  view  of  the  Congress  : 

We  have  the  noblest  frigate  in  the  service — admirable  officers 
— and  as  fine  a  crew  as  ever  trod  a  deck.  I  have  been  here  al 
most  two  weeks,  and  have  not  seen  one  sailor  intoxicated,  nor 
one  punished  for  any  offence ;  and — what  is  still  more  remark 
able — I  have  not  heard  any  profaneness,  either  among  the  crew 
or  officers.  I  came  on  board  a  thorough  teetotaller,  and  such 
shall  remain.  No  one  here  shall  drink  even  wine  under  the 
countenance  of  my  example.  I  am  anxious  to  have  evening 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   AT   SEA.  393 

prayers — have  proposed  it  to  Commodore  Stockton,  and  he  has 
it  now  under  consideration.  I  intend  to  devote  myself  thor 
oughly  to  my  appropriate  duties.  We  have  four  hundred  souls 
on  board,  all  told.  I  now  intend  to  keep  a  journal,  which  I  can 
use  on  my  return,  if  God  permit. 

The  course,  issues,  and  incidents  of  that  voyage  in 
the  Flag-ship  of  the  Pacific  Squadron,  are  given  with 
a  rare  grace  and  felicity  in  the  volumes  entitled 
"  Deck  and  Port,"  and  "  Three  Years  in  California," 
to  which  it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  the  reader. 
His  personal  habits  at  sea  may  be  gathered  from  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  to  his  wife,  dated  At 
Sea,  Nov.  18th,  1845 : 

We  have  just  discovered  a  sail  on  our  starboard  beam,  and  are 
going  to  tack  ship  and  run  down  to  her.  How  glad  shall  I  be 
to  get  another  line  to  my  dear  Lilly!  I  would  not  miss  the 
chance  for  a  month's  pay.  And  ah,  how  I  wish  some  messenger- 
bird  could  bring  me  a  line  from  her!  My  spirits  sink  when  I 
think,  dear  Lilly,  how  long  it  will  be  before  I  hear  from  you. 
May  God  take  care  of  my  lamb. 

It  is  now  twenty  days  since  we  sailed  from  Hampton  Roads. 
We  have  sailed  some  twenty-five  hundred  miles,  and  are  yet 
four  thousand  from  Rio  ;  but  in  the  last  half  of  the  passage  we 
shall  have  the  trade-winds,  and  shall  sail  faster.  In  thirty  days 
more  we  expect  to  make  Rio,  which,  by  the  route  we  are  taking, 
is  over  six  thousand  miles  from  Norfolk.  I  have  suffered  but 
very  little  from  sea-sickness :  I  bathe  morning  and  night  in  salt 
water :  I  turn  in  at  ten  o'clock,  and  rise  before  the  sun. 

We  have  lost  one  man  since  we  left  Norfolk.  He  was  taken 
insane,  and  jumped  overboard  in  the  night.  His  name  was  Amy : 
he  was  from  Philadelphia,  where  he  left  a  sister,  of  whom  he  of- 

17* 


394:  MEMOIR   OF    WALTER   COLTON. 

ten  spoke.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  and  was  much  regretted 
by  us  all.  I  was  requested  by  the  Commodore  to  deliver  a 
funeral  address  on  the  occasion,  which,  of  course,  I  did.  The 
crew  were  very  attentive,  and  seemed  to  lament  poor  Amy. 

I  keep  up  my  journal  punctually,  write  a  page  of  letter-sheet 
every  day,  read  and  write  also  on  my  poem.  I  spend  no  time 
in  idle  conversation — take  regular  exercise.  Our  fresh  provisions 
are  almost  out :  I  live  now  mostly  on  rice  and  potatoes.  How 
I  long  for  a  cup  of  milk !  even  a  glass  of  good  pure  water  would 
be  a  luxury.  I  adhere  to  my  teetotalism :  we  have  a  temperate 
mess ;  there  is  not  a  hard  drinker  among  them,  and,  with  sev 
eral,  wine  is  only  a  ceremony,  and  it  will  become  so,  I  appre 
hend,  with  most  of  them  before  long.  Our  Commodore  is  a 
very  agreeable  man,  so  is  Capt.  Du  Pont :  I  have  every  kind  at 
tention  paid  me. 

From  Rio  Janeiro,  also,  on  the  first  of  January, 
1846,  he  wrote  in  these  terms,  along  with  much  that 
was  endearing  and  tender: — "Let  us  live  through 
the  year  which  we  have  commenced  in  tender  sym 
pathy,  love,  and  confidence.  Let  us  live  nearer  to 
the  throne  of  mercy,  cultivate  a  more  earnest  spirit 
of  piety,  and  seek  to  do  good.  May  the  errors  of  the 
past  year  be  pardoned  by  Infinite  pity,  and  the  to 
kens  of  a  heavenly  Father's  love  be  extended  to  us." 

The  published  volumes  of  Mr.  Colton  henceforth 
furnish  almost  all  the  autobiographical  particulars  of 
his  life  around  Cape  Horn  and  in  the  Pacific,  which 
need  to  be  known ;  and  with  the  additional  charm 
which  one's  story  always  has,  when  told  by  himself, 
after  he  is  gone.  To  them,  therefore,  the  ivudiT  is 


REVIVAL   LN    THE   FRIGATE    CONGRESS.  395 

commended  who  desires  to  be  informed  of  the  public 
course  of  a  man,  whose  name  is  closely  blended  with 
the  early  fortunes  of  the  golden  empire  of  the  Pa 
cific. 

The  chaplain's  devotion  to  the  religious  interests 
of  the  seamen  in  the  Congress  was  not  without  its 
visible  effect  and  reward.  On  the  27th  of  July,  1846, 
he  wrote  from  Monterey  as  follows  : 

We  have  had  for  two  or  three  months  past  an  increased  atten 
tion  in  our  ship  to  the  subject  of  religion.  It  began  in  my  Bi 
ble-class,  but  spread  beyond  that  number  among  the  crew.  As 
the  interest  deepened,  I  established  a  prayer-meeting,  which  has 
been  held  three  times  a  week  in  the  store-room,  an  ample  and 
convenient  apartment  for  that  purpose.  Here  you  will  find  at 
these  meetings  some  sixty  sailors  on  their  knees  at  prayer, 
some  thirty  of  them,  it  is  believed,  have  recently  experienced 
religion;  the  rest  are  inquirers,  and  come  to  be  prayed  for. 
Among  the  subjects  of  the  work  are  some  of  the  most  efficient 
seamen  in  our  ship,  but  who  have  hitherto  led  a  thoughtless  life. 
Those  who  give  evidence  of  having  experienced  a  change  of 
heart  are  called  upon  to  pray.  Their  prayers  have  no  finished 
sentences,  but  they  are  full  of  heart  and  soul.  When  they  speak 
in  their  exhortations  it  is  with  great  directness  and  force.  It 
would  affect  you  to  tears  to  hear  these  rough,  hardy  sailors 
speak  in  these  meetings  of  their  sins,  of  the  compassion  of 
Christ,  and  their  new-born  hopes.  Almost  every  evening  some 
new  one,  the  last  perhaps  expected,  Comes  in,  and,  kneeling 
down,  asks  to  be  prayed  for.  These  meetings  have  no  opposi 
tion  among  the  officers,  and  very  little,  if  any,  among  the  men. 
There  has  been  a  great  change  in  the  Navy  within  a  few  years 
on  this  subject.  We  can  now  have  Bible-classes  and  prayer- 


396  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

meetings  on  board  our  men-of-war,  and  find  among  our  officers 
many  who  will  encourage  them,  and  not  a  few  who  will  give 
them  their  efficient  aid. 

On  the  day  following  the  above  date,  (being  the 
28th  of  July,  1846,)  Mr.  Colton  was  appointed  Al 
calde  of  Monterey  and  its  jurisdiction,  by  the  Amer 
ican  military  authorities,  the  United  States  Flag  hav 
ing  been  first  raised  there  and  at  San  Francisco,  and 
the  Mexican  authorities  displaced,  on  the  10th  of 
July.  After  exercising  this  office  for  nearly  two 
months  under  a  military  commission,  on  the  15th  of 
September,  1846,  he  was  elected  to  the  same  by  the 
citizens  of  Monterey,  as  first  Alcalde  or  chief  Judge. 
His  jurisdiction  extended  over  three  hundred  miles 
of  territory,  and  from  his  Alcalde's  Court  there  was 
no  appeal. 

He  so  fulfilled  the  responsible  duties  of  that  office 
as  to  secure  universal  respect  and  admiration.  The 
commander  of  an  American  merchant  ship,  who  was 
at  Monterey  during  a  part  of  Mr.  Colton's  administra 
tion,  says,  that  "from  all  persons  whom  I  heard 
speak  of  him,  whether  in  his  official  or  private  rela 
tions,  there  was  but  one  opinion,  and  that  was,  his 
.uncompromising  justice  tovall  under  every  circum 
stance.  If  a  dispute  was  to  be  adjusted,  '  well,  we'll 
submit  to  Mr.  Colton,  and  there  shall  be  no  appeal 
from  his  decision; — what  he  says  shall  be  law.'  This 
was  the  universal  opinion  expressed  by  all  classes  in 
Monterey.  The  poor  almost  worshipped  him  ;  the 


HIS   ADMINISTRATION    AS    JUDGE.  39T 

rich  knew  that  with  him  Justice  had  no  'itching 
palm ;'  he  was  incorruptible.  In  a  word,  he  was 
the  most  popular  Justice  that  was  ever  known  in 
Monterey,  especially  with  the  poor  ;  and  in  all  cases, 
so  far  as  I  knew  or  heard,  were  his  decisions  entirely 
acquiesced  in." 

A  lieutenant  also,  in  the  U.  S.  Navy,  who  was  in 
timately  associated  with  Mr.  Colton  in  California, 
testifies  in  regard  to  his  administration  at  Monterey, 
that  "  he  was  a  most  popular  and  impartial  dispensator 
of  justice.  The  laws  were  never  administered  at  less 
expense  to  the  State,  than  under  his  Judgeship.  The 
prisoners  were  hired  out  to  service  for  one  and  two 
dollars  a  day,  and  the  jailer  or  guard  was  himself  a 
released  prisoner,  but  most  faithful  to  his  trust.  The 
punishment  of  confinement  in  the  calaboose  was  justly 
dreaded  by  all  offenders.  Imprisonment  was  nothing, 
but  the  myriad  of  fleas  encountered  in  the  cells  was 
a  torment  of  no  ordinary  infliction. 

"  The  untiring  exertions  of  Mr.  Colton  for  the  ad 
vancement  and  prosperity  of  Monterey  have  never 
been  made  public  at  home,  neither  appreciated  in 
California,  as  would  have  been  the  case  but  for  the  dis 
covery  of  the  Gold  Mines,  which  absorbed  the  thoughts 
and  interest  of  every  man  in  the  country.  Yet  the 
erection  of  the  substantial  edifice  for  Public  Schools 
and  Town  Hall,  will  be  an  enduring  monument  to  his 
worth  and  memory.  The  building  was  constructed 
entirely  by  the  individual  exertions  of  Mr.  Colton. 


398  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

"In  all  the  usual  extensive  acquaintance  incident  to 
naval  life,  it  has  never  been  my  lot  to  associate  with 
a  gentleman  possessing  more  noble  traits  of  character 
than  Mr.  Colton :  a  good  Christian,  though  not  for 
ward  in  thrusting  his  views  upon  his  associates  un 
asked,  but  ever  ready  and  willing  to  advise  and  sym 
pathize  with  those  who  desired  to  confide  in  him. 
As  a  companion,  few  were  more  entertaining  and 
instructive.  He  was  highly  esteemed  by  Governor 
Mason,  between  whom  and  himself  there  ever  existed 
the  most  friendly  intimacy. 

"  From  May  until  October,  1848,  were  hard  times 
in  Monterey  t  Provisions  were  scarce  and  difficult  to 
obtain,  and  the  want  of  domestics  rendered  it  often 
necessary  for  the  Governor  and  Alcalde  to  assist  in 
preparing  the  food  for  the  table.  Though  an  occupa 
tion  so  foreign  to  his  usual  habits,  he  was  ever  will 
ing  to  lend  a  hand.  His  own  sleeping  apartment  was 
such  as  the  poorest  laborer  would  not  envy — a  dark 
room,  no  window,  not  six  feet  wide,  and  almost  as  bad 
as  the  calaboose  itself,  from  the  thousands  of  fleas 
there  congregated. 

"  To  the  poor  emigrant  Mr.  Colton  was  ever  kind 
and  generous  in  contributing  to  his  wants  and  little 
comforts  in  a  strange  land ;  and  I  can  only  add,  that 
I  have  ever  found  him  a  true  friend,  and  most  ju 
dicious  adviser,  whose  loss  I  truly  lament." 

Mr.  Colton's  letters  from  Monterey  reveal  the 
warm  and  large  heart  of  the  affectionate  husband 


JUDGE  OF  THE  COURT  OF  ADMIRALTY. 

and   father,  ever  yearning   towards  the  beloved  at 
home.     He  thus  writes  to  his  wife  in  April  184:7 : 

I  am  the  most  happy  when  you  and  our  dear  boy  are  most 
warmly  in  my  mind,  and  nothing  brings  you  to  me  like  the  pen, 
or  one  of  those  morning  dreams  which  float  around  the  thin 
verge  of  slumber.  I  picked  you  a  bouquet  the  other  day  all  of 
sweet  wild-flowers,  and  put  it  in  a  glass  of  water — it  is  still  fresh — 
what  would  I  give  could  I  put  it  in  your  hand,  or  twine  some  of 
its  beautiful  flowers  in  your  soft  hair !  You  must  make  Walter 
love  flowers,  and  teach  him  all  the  little  hymns  about  them.  I 
wish  I  could  catch  one  glance  of  the  little  fellow's  face  :  I  would 
consent  to  stay  out  here  six  months  longer  for  that  single  look, 
and  one  kiss  from  you.  Since  I  wrote  you  last  the  Governor-gen 
eral  has  honored  me  with  the  appointment  of  Judge  of  the  Court 
of  Admiralty.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  what  this  court  is,  so  I 
will  explain  it :  when  a  vessel  of  any  kind  is  captured  by  our  men- 
of-war,  she  is  considered  a  prize.  But  before  .she  becomes  really 
so,  it  is  necessary  that  she  should  be  tried  and  condemned;  if  it 
is  found  that  she  belongs  to  individuals  of  a  neutral  nation  that 
have  not  been  trading  with  the  enemy,  she  is  liberated ;  but  if 
she  belongs  to  the  enemy  or  those  who  reside  among  them, 
she  is  condemned.  Now,  to  decide  this  question  is  my  office ; 
there  is  an  appeal  from  my  decision  to  that  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  if  the  owners  choose.  I  have  just 
condemned  the  schooner  William  and  her  cargo :  they  are  both 
worth  about  twenty  thousand  dollars.  It  is  an  office  of  too 
much  responsibility  for  one  man ;  but  there  is  some  consolation 
in  knowing  that  if  I  err  I  shall  be  set  right  by  another  tribunal. 
This  does  not  interfere  with  my  duties  as  Alcalde ;  these  go  on 
as  before.  I  owe  this  Admiralty  appointment  to  the  good  opin 
ion,  I  should  have  said,  the  partiality,  of  Commodore  Biddle  and 
General  Kearny. 


400  MEMOIK   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

Again,  in  May  of  the  same  year,  he  playfully  ac 
knowledges  the  receipt  of  his  son's  miniature,  a  boy 
born  after  his  father's  departure  for  the  Pacific  : 

I  had  never  supposed  yours  could  seem  dearer  to  me  than  it 
had ;  yet  by  the  side  of  Walter  it  took  an  additional  charm.  It 
was  the  mother  and  her  beautiful  boy — and  both  my  own !  I 
was  too  happy  in  gazing  at  them  ;  my  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  I 
read  your  letters  through  twice  before  going  to  bed;  but  I  could 
not  sleep— my  thoughts  were  too  full  of  you,  and  Walter,  and 
home.  I  thought  I  could  not  stay  out  here  any  longer,  and  yet, 
dear  Lilly,  it  would  not  be  honorable  in  me  to  leave  just  yet ;  I 
must  wait  a  few  months,  till  peace  is  declared  with  Mexico,  or 
the  Congress  leaves  for  home. 

The  ship  of  the  line  Columbus  is  still  here,  and  Commodore 
Biddle  commands  the  Pacific  Squadron.  I  am  on  the  best  terms 
with  him  and  with  Commodore  Stockton,  and,  indeed,  all  the 
officers.  I  have  never  had  a  difficulty  with  any  of  them  ;  I  believe 
I  have  their  esteem,  and  am  happy  in  so  thinking.  I  know,  too, 
that  I  have  the  respect  of  the  people  here ;  they  have  bestowed 
on  me  every  token  of  confidence  and  regard ;  not  an  act  of  mine 
has  been  called  in  question ;  and  when  it  was  reported  that  I  was 
to  leave  them,  they  met,  passed  resolutions,  and  sent  a  communi 
cation  to  Commodore  Biddle,  requesting  that  I  might  not  leave 
them.  They  offer  to  put  up  a  house  and  give  it  to  you,  if  you 
will  come  out  and  live  here.  I  tell  them  you  have  a  little  boy 
and  two  aunts,  and  cannot  leave  either  one  of  the  three  ; — then 
they  say,  Bring  them  all  out.  So,  to  satisfy  them,  I  tell  them  I 
must  go  home  and  talk  with  you  all  about  coming  out :  but  well 
I  know  the  result  of  our  deliberations  will  be  to  remain  in  Chest 
nut-street.  There  I  hope  to  spend  my  days  with  you,  and  Wal 
ter,  and  our  aunts;  and  I  picture  to  myself  much  happiiu'-s. 
Will  it  not  be  sweet  to  live  there  together  once  more. — - 


SKETCH   OF  A   CALIFORNIA   PLANTER.  401 

Lilly,  for  the  separation  ?  I  won't  shut  you  out  of  my  study  any 
more ;  you  shall  live  in  there  with  me,  and  teach  Walter  his 
A  B  C's ;  I  expect  you  will  even  begin  before  I  get  back. 

Sketches  are  occasionally  found  in  Mr.  Colton's 
private  letters  similar  to  those  so  graphically  told  in 
the  pages  of  "  Three  Years  in  California."  The  fol 
lowing,  however,  is  unique  and  original,  in  a  letter 
to  his  wife,  of  June,  1847 : 

I  will  now  give  you  some  idea  of  a  planter's  establishment  in 
California.  A  difference  of  opinion  having  arisen  between  two 
planters,  whose  lands  adjoined,  about  the  boundary  line,  I  was 
called  upon,  as  chief  magistrate  of  the  jurisdiction,  to  go  and  set 
tle  the  affair :  I  said  I  would  be  ready  on  the  following  Mon 
day.  On  that  day,  about  noon,  a  gentleman  called  with  his  ser 
vant,  who  was  also  mounted  and  leading  two  horses.  One  was 
white,  a  splendid  animal,  with  broad  chest,  slender  legs,  round 
shoulders,  long  flowing  tail  and  mane,  an  eye  full  of  fire,  and 
champing  at  the  bit.  The  gentleman  told  me  he  was  intended 
for  me ;  I  forthwith  mounted  him,  and  my  secretary  took  the 
other.  Four  miles  took  us  over  the  mountain  ridge  which  en 
circles  Monterey.  Descending  this,  we  came  upon  a  beautiful 
plain  of  fifteen  miles,  with  a  broad  stream  running  through  the 
middle.  We  galloped  over  it,  and  entered  a  wild  romantic  ra 
vine  extending  fifteen  miles  more,  and  then  emerged  upon  an 
other  rich  plain,  which,  with  the  one  we  had  first  passed,  was 
covered  with  immense  herds  of  cattle. 

Here  we  found  another  mountain  stream,  and,  breaking  from 
the  forest  which  overhung  it,  discovered,  on  the  brow  of  an  ele 
vation  which  swelled  up  from  the  bosom  of  the  vast  and  verdant 
plain,  a  large  mansion,  whose  white  portico  glittered  in  the  sun. 
Here  we  brought  up,  after  a  gallop  of  fifty  miles,  in  which  we 


402  MEMOIR  OF  WALTER   COLTON. 

had  not  once  alighted,  and  which  we  had  passed  over  in  about 
four  hours.  Such  are  California  horses !  On  alighting,  I  felt 
the  ride  most  in  my  legs,  and  a  young  lady  said  to  me  in  Span 
ish,  Senor  Alcalde,  I  will  run  a  foot-race  with  you  to-morrow 
morning.  Refreshments  were  immediately  ordered,  and  I  then 
took  a  siesta. 

As  twilight  deepened,  all  the  old  mansion  was  lighted  up — 
every  room  had  a  light  in  it,  and  the  Indians  kindled  a  bonfire 
outside.  The  mansion  has  a  main  building  and  two  wings,  with 
an  intervening  portico :  the  great  parlor  is  in  the  centre.  Here 
two  ladies  amused  us  with  their  guitars :  they  were  sisters — one 
married,  the  other  single : — the  married  one  about  twenty ;  the 
single  one  about  eighteen.  The  evening  passed  away  in  music 
and  chat ;  at  ten  o'clock  came  supper,  a  meal  fit  for  a  king,  but 
this  is  always  the  grand  meal  in  California.  My  bed-room  was 
in  the  wing  of  the  building ;  I  found  it  filled  with  roses,  and, 
what  is  surprising,  not  a  flea  in  the  bed. 

In  the  morning  I  mounted  the  white  horse  again,  and  rode, 
with  about  twenty  gentlemen,  over  the  plantation,  surveying  the 
disputed  line,  comparing  it  with  maps  and  titles,  and  taking  testi 
mony.  We  were  some  six  hours  on  horseback,  and  the  follow 
ing  day  as  many  more.  The  two  ladies  of  whom  I  have  spoken 
are  daughters  of  the  old  Don :  their  mother,  the  Donna,  though 
aged,  is  still  lively :  they  made  me  tell  them  all  about  you  and 
Walter.  The  single  lady  said  I  must  bring  you  out  here,  and 
she  would  give  you  the  horse  I  rode,  (he  was  hers,  it  seems ;) 
the  married  one  said  she  would  give  you  forty  cows ;  the  Donna 
said  she  would  give  you  a  hundred  sheep ;  the  old  Don  said  he 
would  give  you  a  thousand  acres  of  land  for  Walter !  I  told 
them  I  would  pen  you  their  proposal,  but  that  you  loved  your 
home,  and  I  hoped  soon  to  be  there.  The  farm  of  the  Don  lies 
fifteen  miles  square,  in  the  richest  land  of  California.  He  has 
only  eight  thousand  head  of  cattle,  a  thousand  horses,  and  four 
thousand  sheep !  I  was  treated  with  the  most  kind  and  respect- 


POWERS   AND   DUTIES   OF  THE   PREFECT.  403 

fill  attention,  and  on  the  fourth  day  returned,  and  sent  the  white 
horse  back,  with  a  rose  to  its  owner.  Such  is  a  specimen  of  a 
California  planter.  But  give  me,  before  all,  my  Lilly  and  my 
Walter :  the  humblest  hut  with  them  is  better  than  the  world 
without. 

Later  in  the  same  month,  we  find  the  following, 
which  reveals  not  less  the  humanity  of  the  man  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  magistrate,  than  the  easy  bearing 
of  his  honors : 

The  Civil  Government  of  California  has  been  reorganized  on 
its  ancient  basis.  It  has  three  grand  departments — the  Northern, 
the  Middle,  and  the  Southern.  I  am  created  Prefect  of  the  Mid 
dle  Department;  this  is  the  highest  civil  office  in  it,  and  the  high 
est  Spanish  dignity  to  which  I  expect  to  arrive  before  I  leave 
here  and  fly  back  to  you.  No  post  of  honor  or  power  would,  in 
itself,  keep  me  here  a  moment.  I  am  chained  from  a  sense  of 
duty ;  and  when  this  duty  has  been  performed,  the  chain  dis 
solves,  and  I  am  free.  I  know  that  in  doing  this  I  am  acting 
just  as  you  would  have  me.  You  want  me  to  come  back  at 
once,  but  still  you  want  me  to  do  my  duty  here.  I  have  now, 
in  my  capacity  as  Prefect,  five  cases  of  homicide  on  hand,  all 
waiting  for  trial ;  but  I  don't  intend  to  hang  any  of  them, — this 
is  the  poorest  use  to  which  you  can  put  a  human  being : — I  shall 
sentence  them  to  the  public  works,  with  ball  and  chain,  for  a 
long  term  of  years.  In  the  United  States  one  or  two  of  them 
would  be  hung. 

I  am  now  building  a  prison,  with  work-houses  attached ;  I  am 
also  building  a  splendid  academy  and  town-hall,  all  of  native 
rock.  The  academy  will  be  the  finest  building  in  California. 
Have  I  not  my  hands  full  ?  But  every  thing  goes  on  with 
energy.  They  have  a  name  here  for  every  thing,  and  they  call 


4:04  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

your  Walter  the  main-spring :  I  don't  care  what  they  call  me,  so 
that  the  machinery  moves  with  harmony  and  effect.  Monterey 
is  growing  very  fast:  some  new  building  starts  almost  every 
day.  The  scenery  around  is  unsurpassed  in  magnificent  beauty : 
the  thunder  of  the  waves,  as  they  roll  and  break  around  the  bay, 
is  echoed  back  by  a  hundred  forest-feathered  steeps ;  while  Mon 
terey  lies  cradled  between  in  soft  sunshine  and  shade. 

I  hope  soon  to  be  with  you — with  little  Walter  in  my  arms. 
How  dear  to  me  is  that  child !  He  is  the  star  that  lights  my 
horizon,  and  throws  its  tender  rays  on  my  hearth  and  home. 
Once  more,  dear  Lilly,  adieu ! 

Your  ever  constant  and  devoted  husband, 

WALTER  COLTON. 

The  realization  of  these  fond  hopes  of  domestic  en 
joyment  was  yet  longer  deferred  by  the  stern  neces 
sities  of  public  duty.  More  than  seven  months  later, 
Mr.  Colton  was  still  at  his  post  in  Monterey,  faith 
fully  fulfilling  the  round  of  his  arduous  duties,  but 
yearning  more  than  ever  for  the  delights  of  home. 
A  letter,  dated  the  28th  of  January,  1848,  reveals 
the  heart  both  of  the  hero  and  husband : 

The  Government  Dispatch  over  land,  by  the  way  of  Santa  Fe, 
leaves  to-morrow  or  next  day  for  Washington,  and  I  shall  not 
let  it  go  without  a  good  long  letter  to  you.  You  merit  a  dozen 
letters  for  your  heroic  conduct  in  our  separation :  you  bear  up 
against  it  with  a  heart  and  resolution  wrhich  honor  you  much. 
I  am  proud  to  have  one  who  has  so  much  force  of  character  for 
my  wife ;  forty  others  whom  I  know  would  have  given  out  in 
despondency ;  but  you  hold  on  and  hold  out.  May  Heaven 
bless  you  for  it,  and  may  I  ever  love  you  the  more  tenderly.  In- 
Btil  the  same  fortitude  into  our  noble  boy,  train  him  to  self-de- 


CORRESPONDENCE   FROM   MONTEREY.  4:05 

nial,  and  inspire  him  with  good  and  generous  purposes ;  teach 
him  that  he  lives  beneath  a  care  that  hears  the  cry  of  the  raven, 
and  marks  the  fall  of  the  sparrow ;  and  that  every  prayer  his  in 
fant  tongue  may  syllable  goes  straight  to  Heaven.  Many  and 
many  a  time  have  I  thought  what  he  might  be,  what  bent  his 
genius  might  take.  I  have  figured  his  success  in  this  or  that 
profession,  and  my  fancy  has  almost  made  him  a  poet;  and  yet 
I  don't  want  him  to  be  that,  unless  he  shall  be  able  to  string  a 
lyre  of  surpassing  sweetness  and  power.  Above  all,  I  hope  he 
will  be  good,  devoted  to  truth,  virtue,  and  religion,  when  you  and 
I  have  passed  into  the  spirit-land. 

How  I  long  to  be  on  my  way  to  you !  and  yet  I  ought  not  to 
murmur ;  for  the  country  is  at  war,  and  every  one  in  the  public 
service  should  be  prepared  to  do  his  duty.  But  I  have  been  so 
long  from  you,  and  have  never  yet  seen  my  dear  boy, — is  it  a 
wonder  that  I  am  anxious  to  get  back,  that  I  think  of  it  by  day 
and  dream  of  it  by  night  ?  As  yet  I  am  intensely  active  here  : 
I  am  up  with  the  sun,  and  have  business  crowding  on  me  till 
night ;  this  makes  time  less  heavy  than  it  would  otherwise  be ; 
and  but  for  this  I  should  indeed  be  most  unhappy.  I  intend  to 
go  through  it  heroically  to  the  last.  I  know  you  would  wish  me 
to  do  this,  and  not  to  spoil  or  maim  what  I  have  done,  by  falter 
ing  at  the  close.  You  had  this  sentiment  in  one  of  your  letters, 
and  I  was  proud  of  it,  and  proud  of  you  for  having  penned  it; 
but  I  am  resolved,  come  what  may,  never  to  leave  you  again. 

There  is  no  place  so  dear  to  me  here  as  the  solitary  wood, 
where  I  can  throw  myself  into  some  silent  recess,  where  I  can 
think  unmolested  of  you  and  the  young  being  expanding  into 
life  and  intelligence  at  your  side.  It  is  now  mid-winter  here, 
and  yet  all  the  flowers  are  out,  and  the  birds  are  out  and  war 
bling,  as  if  it  were  but  May :  it  is  here  one  perpetual  spring. 
Monterey  is  overhung  with  a  forest  whose  leaves  never  fall ; — 
it  is  the  evergreen  oak  and  the  verdant  pine  mingling  their  rapt 
and  soul-like  sounds  with  the  music  of  the  wave  as  it  dies  along 


4:06  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

the  bay.  Such  hills,  such  verdure,  such  cliffs,  such  nodding  for 
ests  with  leaping  torrents  and  murmuring  waves,  are  found  on 
no  shore  where  your  light  footstep  hath  passed ;  and  yet  how 
gladly  would  I  turn  my  eyes  from  them  forever  to  fly  back  to 
you  and  my  own  sweet  child,  and  be  there,  as  I  am  here, 
Your  devoted  husband, 

WALTER  COLTON. 


MOXTEEEY,  May  21st,  1848. 
My  DEAREST  LILLY, 

You  will  want  to  know  something  of  our  quicksilver 
mine :  we  have  discovered  one  of  the  arms  of  the  vein,  but  not 
as  yet  the  vein  itself.  We  are  now  excavating  for  that,  and 
have  strong  hopes  of  success.  Forbes'  mine,  close  to  ours, 
yields  three  hundred  dollars  per  day.  We  have  already  discov 
ered  on  our  land  a  silver  mine  which  is  pretty  rich,  but  we  have 
no  machinery  for  working  it,  and  it  requires  a  heavy  capital.  A 
few  potash  kettles  will  do  for  a  quicksilver  mine,  and  the  profits 
are  ten  times  as  great ;  so  we  go  for  that.  If  we  strike  the  main 
vein,  I  am  going  to  call  it  the  Cornelia  Mine ;  but  don't  be  too 
confident  of  having  your  name  perpetuated  here  in  that  form ; 
for  nothing  is  so  uncertain  as  mining.  When  we  have  seemingly 
reached  the  golden  chest,  it  may  be  somewhere  else.  The  rich 
est  vein  I  ever  found  was  in  you,  and  with  that  I  ought  to  be 
content,  and  I  am  contented.  I  could  be  happy  with  you  in  a 
log-cabin  with  only  a  hoe-cake  at  the  fire. 

I  went  out  yesterday  to  a  Monterey  pic-nic :  there  were  some 
sixty  ladies  and  gentlemen  present.  The  place  selected  was  by 
the  sea-side,  under  large  embowering  trees.  All  the  ladies  rode 
to  the  ground — some  three  miles  distant — on  horseback,  and  a 
more  frolicksome  group  never  got  together.  All  the  ground 
here  as  covered  with  wild-flowers ;  of  these  the  ladies  wore  cor 
onals,  and  every  gentleman,  save  myself,  was  obliged  to  wear 


A   CALIFORNIA  PIC-NIC.  407 


one; — they  excused  me  because  I  was  Alcalde,  but  they  required 
me  to  put  it  on  the  head  of  some  lady,  and  I  placed  it  on  one  who 
was  about  eighty  years  of  age.  The  ladies  set  the  table — which 
was  an  immense  table-cloth  spread  on  the  grass.  On  this  was 
piled  every  kind  of  meat  and  game — from  the  ox  down  to  the 
humming-bird — and  all  sorts  of  cakes  and  sweetmeats.  The 
only  drink  was  lemonade,  coffee,  and  a  light  California  wine,  a 
gallon  of  which  would  not  intoxicate. 

In  the  centre  of  the  spot  selected  was  a  level  plot  of  ground, 
from  which  the  grass  had  been  cut.  Around  this  and  under  the 
trees  the  whole  company  was  now  grouped,  when  out  came  the 
guitars,  violins,  and  harps,  and  all  were  ready  for  a  dance.  The 
first  person  who  took  the  turf  was  the  old  lady  whom  I  crowned 
— her  partner  was  a  young  lad ;  then  out  stepped  an  old  man 
some  eighty  years  or  so,  and  he  took  a  beautiful  young  girl ; 
till  the  company  was  full,  and  then  they  struck  off  into  a  coun 
try  dance :  but  they  soon  got  to  waltzing,  and  then  came  the 
polka.  My  old  lady  was  the  most  sprightly  and  graceful  of 
them  all. 

When  the  dancing  paused,  they  struck  up  a  song,  in  which 
all  joined  the  chorus,  that  made  the  old  woods  ring.  Eagles 
were  perched  on  the  pines  around,  and  sea-birds  were  wheeling 
through  the  spray  as  it  dashed  up  in  foaming  thunder  from  the 
rocks ;  while  far  away  stretched  the  broad  Pacific  Ocean.  Was 
not  this  grand  ?  How  I  wanted  you  here !  I  thought  of  you  a 
thousand  times  during  the  day,  and  how  Walter  would  have 
pulled  the  flowers  out  of  the  ladies'  coronals.  It  is  said  no  ladies 
in  the  world  equal  the  Californians  in  the  dance ;  it  is  as  much 
their  element  as  water  is  that  of  a  fish.  I  have  seen  little  chil 
dren  only  four  years  of  age  dance  the  polka  and  go  through  the 
most  complicated  figures  without  an  error. 

The  party  broke  up  a  little  before  sunset,  and  we  all  returned 
to  Monterey.  I  never  saw  so  much  happiness  and  wild  life  at 
a  pic-nic  before.  Though  often  invited,  this  is  only  the  second 


408  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

one  that  I  have  attended.  The  more  happy  I  see  people,  the 
more  I  think  of  you,  and  how  sad  you  are  in  waiting  for  me ; 
but  keep  in  good  courage  only  a  little  while  longer,  and  I  am 
with  you. 

A  long  year  of  anxiety  was  yet  to  roll  between 
parties  bound  to  each  other  so  tenderly  ere  the  con 
summation  of  their  hopes  in  the  safe  return  of  the 
fond  husband  and  father.  It  was  filled  up  with  du 
ties  well  performed  and  days  well  spent,  on  the  one 
side ;  and  on  the  other  the  absence  was  borne  as  be 
came  one  who  had  learned  to  sacrifice  private  feel 
ings  to  public  duty. 


WISDOM   OF  HIS   ADMINISTRATION.  409 


CHAPTER   V. 

RETURN    FROM    THE    PACIFIC,    ENGAGEMENTS    WITH    PUBLISH 
ERS,    LAST    ILLNESS    AND    DEATH. 

THE  household  band  was  fondly  thine,  and  from  the  raging  Main, 
How  peacefully  came  sweet  repose  at  home,  DEAR  HOME,  again ! 

THE  fame  of  Mr.  Colton's  public  administration  in 
California  has  become  the  property  of  the  world.  A 
sketch  in  the  International  Magazine  very  justly  says 
of  him,  that  "  the  difficult  duties  and  large  responsi 
bilities  of  his  office,  demanding  the  most  untiring 
industry,  zeal,  and  fortitude,  were  discharged  with 
eminent  faithfulness  and  ability  ;  so  that  he  won  as 
much  the  regard  of  the  conquered  inhabitants  of  the 
country,  as  the  respect  of  his  more  immediate  asso 
ciates.  In  addition  to  the  ordinary  duties  of  his 
place,  Mr.  Colton  established  the  first  newspaper 
printed  in  California,  The  CaUfornian,  now  pub 
lished  in  San  Francisco,  under  the  title  of  the  Alta 
Californian.  He  built  the  first  school-house  in  Califor 
nia,  and  also  a  large  hall  for  public  meetings — said 
to  be  the  finest  building  in  the  State — which  the  citi 
zens  called  '  Colton  Hall,'  in  honor  of  his  public  spirit 
and  enterprise. 

"  It  was  during  his  administration  of  affairs  at 
18 


410  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   CXJLTON. 

Monterey,  that  the  discovery  of  gold  in  the  Sacra 
mento  valley  was  first  made,  (in  May,  1848 ;)  and, 
considering  the  vast  importance  which  this  discoveiy 
has  since  assumed,  it  is  not  uninteresting  to  state 
that  the  honor  of  first  making  it  publicly  known  in 
the  Atlantic  States,  whether  by  accident  or  other 
wise,  belongs  properly  to  him.  It  was  first  an 
nounced  in  a  letter  bearing  his  initials,  which  ap 
peared  in  the  Philadelphia  North  American,  and  the 
next  day,  in  a  letter  also  written  by  him,  in  the  New 
York  Journal  of  Commerce." 

Mr.  Colton  returned  to  his  family  by  way  of  Pan 
ama  and  Chagres  with  both  honor  and  emolument, 
as  soon  as  public  duty  would  allow,  early  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1849.  His  assiduous  labors  had  manifestly 
impaired  his  strength,  and  ploughed  his  face  with 
furrows  beyond  his  years.  His  friends  remarked 
that  he  was  care-worn,  less  buoyant,  more  reserved, 
and  that  he  less  frequently  indulged  his  constitu 
tional  wit  and  humor. 

Those  who  knew  him  best  thought,  that  while  his 
natural  force  was  unabated,  the  tone  of  his  mind  was 
more  subdued,  and  there  was  an  increase  of  spiritual 
ity  and  of  other  traits  becoming  a  Christian  minister. 
He  playfully  says  of  Washington,  in  a  letter  to  his 
brother,  of  July  llth,  1849  :  "  I  found  Washington 
full  of  office-seekers,  and  became  such  a  singular  cu 
riosity  from  not  being  one  myself,  that  they  talked 
ef  putting  me  into  a  cage  for  exhibition.  The  pour 


SICKNESS   AT   WASHINGTON.  411 

General  wishes  that  he  was  fighting  once  again  his 
Buena  Yista  battle :  '  a  little  more  grape,  Colonel 
Bragg '  might  then  drive  off  his  enemies.  But  all 
the  grape  in  Christendom  would  not  relieve  him  of 
his  office-seeking  friends." 

After  visiting  his  venerable  father  in  Vermont, 
then  just  eighty-five  years  of  age,  he  returned  to 
Philadelphia  and  New  York,  and  there  gave  himself 
in  earnest  to  the  publication  of  "  Deck  and  Port," 
and  "  Three  Years  in  California."  A  letter  to  his 
brother  Aaron  in  March,  1850,  from  Philadelphia, 
says  : 

I  was  at  Washington  about  twelve  weeks  of  the  last  winter — 
part  of  the  time  sick — the  effect  of  my  California  residence,  or 
change  of  climate.  My  object  was,  the  origination  of  a  Bill  in 
Congress  for  payment  for  my  extra  services  in  California.  But 
nothing  will  be  done  till  this  slave  question  is  disposed  of.  The 
Disunion  Capital  is  at  a  discount,  arid  is  fast  becoming  what 
brokers  call  a  fancy  stock.  I  have  corrected  my  last  proof  of 
"Deck  and  Port;"  it  will  be  out  in  a  few  days.  My  "Three 
Years  in  California"  will  follow  soon.  Gardiner  [another 
brother]  writes  me  from  California,  that  he  has  not  received  a 
single  letter  of  mine.  What  a  miserable  mail!  Only  fit  to 
carry  an  order  to  a  high  sheriff  for  the  execution  of  a  prisoner 
entitled  to  a  reprieve ! 

In  the  month  of  May  this  year,  during  the  reli 
gious  anniversary  week  at  New  York,  Mr.  Colton 
delivered  a  speech  that  was  much  admired,  before 
the  American  Seamen's  Friend  Society.  A  portion 
of  the  ensuing  summer  was  spent  in  travelling  and 


412  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

on  a  visit  to  his  native  region  in  Vermont,  without, 
however,  any  essential  benefit  to  his  health.  His 
last  letter  to  his  brother  Aaron  is  dated  November 
28th,  1850,  and  gives  the  particulars  of  the  illness 
with  which  he  finally  died,  after  a  confinement  of 
five  months : 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  marvel  at  my  silence ;  but  a  few 
words  will  explain.  I  went  to  Washington  a  few  days  after  you 
and  E.  left  here  :  I  was  there  attacked  with  a  violent  case  of  in 
flammation  of  the  liver.  It  seemed  to  strike  me  suddenly  as 
a  thunderbolt;  threw  me  on  my  back,  where  I  lay  about  ten 
days,  at  which  time  Congress  adjourned.  Under  the  care  of  a 
friend  I  then  attempted  to  reach  home ;  but  this  brought  on  a 
relapse,  and  I  came  very  near  dying.  My  physician  stuck  to  me 
night  and  day.  Such  were  the  extreme  tortures  which  I  suf 
fered,  they  wrenched  the  water  copiously  from  my  eyes — and  all 
this  with  the  utter  inability  to  turn  an  inch  in  my  bed  or  lift  a 
hand. 

These  sufferings,  or  rather  the  cause  of  them,  yielded  slowly 
to  medicine,  and  in  some  four  weeks  I  was  able  to  ride  out  in  a 
close  carriage  :  but  very  soon,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  disease 
of  the  liver,  I  was  attacked  with  the  dysentery.  I  now  walk  out 
every  day  when  the  weather  is  fair :  the  liver  is  still  sore,  but 
no  abscess  is  formed,  and  the  soreness  is  gradually  subsiding. 
Next  week,  if  I  continue  to  improve,  I  am  going  into  a  riding- 
school  under  cover,  to  ride  an  hour  every  day.  This  is  the  great 
physical  cure  for  the  liver  complaint.  It  has  been  coming  upon 
me  ever  since  I  returned  from  California.  I  live  mostly  on  oat 
meal,  mush,  and  cream.  I  have  had  no  nurse  but  my  Cornelia 
she  has  been  with  me  night  and  day. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

WALTER  COLTOM. 


STATE   OF   MIND   IN   HIS   ILLNESS.  413 


In  health  and  sickness  the  subject  of  this  memoir 
had  ever  practically  in  mind,  especially  the  last  two 
years  of  his  life,  the  good  "Advice  for  every  Season" 
of  old  Thomas  Tusser : 

In  health,  to  be  stirring  shall  profit  thee  best ; 
In  sickness,  hate  trouble ;  seek  quiet  and  rest : 
Remember  thy  soul ;  let  no  fancy  prevail ; 
Make  ready  to  Godward ;  let  faith  never  quail ; 
The  sooner  thyself  thou  submittest  to  God, 
The  sooner  he  ceaseth  to  scourge  with  his  rod. 

Most  of  the  time  of  his  last  illness  Mr.  Colton  was 
very  sick ;  but  he  was  found  patient,  even  cheerful, 
and  was  never  but  once  heard  to  complain,  and  then 
only  in  the  expressive  monosyllables,  "  I  feel  bad." 
He  desired  to  live,  but  was  submissive  to  the  will  of 
God.  Once  he  said  "  he  would  like  to  recover,  if  it 
might  please  God — he  wanted  to  preach  one  more 
sermon — it  should  be  on  the  uncertainty  of  sick-bed 
repentance." 

Until  the  day  before  his  death,  a  strong  hope  was 
felt  by  himself  and  by  the  beloved  friends  who 
watched  him,  that  he  would  yet  get  well.  A  short 
time  before  expiring,  he  was  heard  to  say,  "  Dear 
Jesus,  dear  Jesus,  my  faith  clings  to  thee ;"  and  then 
he  repeated  portions  of  the  hymn  beginning,  "  I 
would  not  live  alway,  I  ask  not  to  stay." 

"When  his  powers  of  speech  were  almost  gone,  as 
if  his  mind  yearned  towards  his  aged  father  in  Yer- 


414:  MEMOIR  OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

mont,  he  said  distinctly  three  times,  "  My  dear  fa 
ther."  His  spiritual  comforter  and  friend  was  Rev. 
Albert  Barnes,  on  whose  ministry  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  attending  in  Philadelphia.  Their  inter 
views  were  frequent  during  this  illness,  and  for  more 
than  an  hour  previous  to  his  death  Mr.  Barnes  was 
with  him,  whispering  passages  of  hope  and  consola 
tion  into  his  ear,  and  commending  his  departing 
spirit  to  the  Saviour. 

All  along  in  his  confinement  he  had  been  examin 
ing  the  foundations  of  his  hope  with  great  care  and 
though tfulness,  and  the  result  was  satisfactory  to  his 
own  mind,  and  he  told  his  spiritual  adviser,  "  that 
Christ  had  never  appeared  so  precious  to  him  as  he 
had  during  this  sickness — he  was  the  sheet-anchor  of 
his  soul."  The  nearer  he  came  to  the  river  of  death, 
the  stronger  became  his  faith  in  the  atoning  Saviour. 
Not  long  before  he  breathed  his  last,  he  was  heard  to 
say,  in  the  words  of  Job,  "  I  know  that  my  Re 
deemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  at  the  latter 
day  upon  the  earth ;  and  though,  after  my  skin, 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  I  shall  see 
God." 

"When  made  aware  that  his  end  was  very  near,  al 
though  he  had  had  no  expectation  of  dying  so  soon, 
nor,  indeed,  any  prevailing  belief  that  this  was  to  be 
his  last  sickness,  he  evinced  that  calmness  and  resig 
nation  which  the  Christian  hope  alone  can  warrant- 
He  expired  at  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the 


FUNERAL   SERVICES   AND   OBITUARY.  415 

twenty-second  of  January,  1851,  at  peace,  it  is  be 
lieved,  with  God  and  with  all  mankind.  His  funeral 
was  attended  with  Naval  honors  by  a  large  assembly 
of  United  States  Officers,  Marines,  Seamen,  and  other 
sympathizing  friends,  on  the  twenty-fifth.  Rev.  Mr. 
Barnes  officiated,  and  addressed  to  the  mourners, 
"  Thoughts  suggested  by  the  death-bed  of  a  Chris 
tian;"  testifying  that  while  he  was  by  the  bedside 
of  the  deceased,  he  had  felt  that  he  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  true  Christian,  who  was  leaving  this  world 
for  one  more  glorious ;  and  expatiating  upon  the  val 
ue  of  the  Christian  hope,  till  it  was  the  aspiration  of 
all  present,  Let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous, 
and  let  my  last  end  be  like  his. 

The  day  after  his  decease  there  appeared  in  the 
columns  of  the  North  American  the  following  obit 
uary  : — "  It  is  our  painful  duty  this  morning  to  record 
the  death  of  the  Rev.  "Walter  Colton,  of  the  United 
States  Navy,  who  expired  at  two  o'clock  yesterday 
afternoon,  at  his  residence  in  this  city.  Mr.  Colton 
was,  in  1841  and  '42,  connected  with  the  old  North 
American  as  its  principal  editor ;  and  we  have,  there 
fore,  to  lament  the  loss  of  one  having  claims  upon  us 
as  a  predecessor,  as  well  as  those  stronger  claims 
which  attach  to  us  in  common  with  all  his  acquaint 
ances  and  friends.  He  was  a  man  of  much  talent 
and  great  worth,  which  he  exhibited  in  various  sta 
tions,  private  and  public.  His  professional  career  as 
a  chaplain  in  the  Navy  endeared  him  to  his  brother 


416  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

officers,  and  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  useful 
ness  which  he  was  careful  to  improve. 

"  Called,  by  an  exigency  of  war,  from  this  peaceful 
position  to  the  responsible  post  of  Alcalde,  or  chief 
civil  Magistrate,  of  Monterey,  in  California,  he  dis 
played  administrative  abilities  of  a  high  order,  and 
performed  his  several  functions  of  judge  and  gov 
ernor  with  an  energy,  fidelity,  and  tact  which  won 
for  him  the  regard  of  a  conquered  people,  and  de 
served  the  approbation  of  his  country.  His  late  vol 
ume  on  California,  describing,  in  a  genial  spirit,  his 
residence,  labors,  and  travels  in  that  land  of  gold, — 
and  his  c  Ship  and  Shore,'  and  other  literary  publi 
cations — all  evincing  talent  and  a  peculiar  gay  and 
blithesome  humor,  with  a  certain  satirical  turn — will 
long  give  him  an  additional  claim  upon  public  recol 
lection.  The  higher  honor  belongs  to  him  of  having 
been  a  faithful  officer,  a  good  citizen,  a  kind-hearted 
man,  and  a  devoted,  unostentatious  Christian." 

In  view  of  his  peaceful  death  as  a  Christian,  in  full 
hope  of  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  but  at  a  time 
when  his  longer  life  as  a  husband,  father,  friend,  and 
citizen  was  so  much  to  be  desired,  for  their  sakes  and 
his  own,  it  were  suitable  to  make  his  epitaph  from 
some  of  those  unique  verses  of  Henry  Yaughan — 

Dear,  beauteous  Death,  the  jewel  of  the  Just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark, 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 


EPITAPH   FROM   HENRY    VAUGHAN.  417 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's-nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

INTO  TRUE  LIBERTY! 

18* 


418  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

AN  EPITOME  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER  HEREIN  DISPLAYED. 

IT  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulke,  doth  make  man  better  be ; 

Or  standing  long  an  oake,  three  hundred  yeare, 

To  fall  a  logge  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  scare ; 

A  lillie  of  a  day, 

Is  fairer  farre  in  May ; 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 

It  was  the  plant  and  flowre  of  light. 

In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see , 

And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson'a  Good  Life  the  Long  Life. 

THE  writer  of  these  memorials  never  having  had 
the  pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the 
subject  of  them,  has  been  obliged  to  rely  much  upon 
the  judgments  of  those  who  knew  him  intimately,  in 
making  out  a  synopsis  of  his  traits  of  character.  The 
testimony  of  friends  is  herein  compared  with,  and 
corrected  by,  the  glimpses  and  views  of  character 
obtained  through  a  careful  perusal  of  his  papers, 
and  the  items  of  his  personal  history  in  private  and 
public. 

The  prescribed  limits  of  this  volume,  already  ex 
ceeded,  forbid  any  elaborate  criticism  upon  the  au- 


INSTRUCTIVE   TRAITS    OF    CHARACTER.  4:19 

thor's  writings,  or  any  thing  more  than  a  brief  epit 
ome  of  the  man  in  his  public  career,  as  Chaplain, 
Editor,  Author,  and  Judge,  and  on  the  field  of  pri 
vate  life.  Four  things  are  especially  to  be  remarked 
in  him  for  the  instruction  of  others,  as  having 
stamped  his  character,  and  as  having  mainly  secured 
his  success  in  life.  His  benevolence  and  good-hu 
mor — his  conversational  power  in  society — his  apt 
ness  to  make  and  keep  friends — his  tact  and  ready 
wit  in  dealing  with  men. 

I.  BENEVOLENCE  AND  GOOD-HUMOR.  Walter  Colton 
had  a  kind,  cheerful,  and  generous  heart,  brimming 
with  good  feeling  towards  his  associates  and  all  man 
kind.  An  intimate  friend  says  of  him  for  substance, 
that  he  was  liberal  to  a  proverb  in  his  use  of  money. 
Money,  what  he  had  of  it,  went  from  him  like  water 
from  a  fountain.  He  persuaded  one  of  his  brothers 
to  prepare  for  the  Christian  ministry,  and  generously 
aided  him  through  the  entire  course.  He  used  to 
say  to  him,  "  Call  on  me  whenever  you  are  in  want 
of  funds ;  you  know  I  would  share  with  you  my  last 
penny ;  if  you  are  in  want  and  I  have  two  coppers, 
you  shall  have  one  of  them ;  my  purse-strings  are  as 
free  to  your  fingers  as  to  mine."  He  sent  hundreds 
of  dollars  to  that  brother,  asking  for  no  pecuniary 
return,  not  permitting  the  keeping  of  even  a  minute 
of  the  sums. 

To  his  friends  he  was  constantly  sending  gifts. 
He  aided  from  time  to  time  many  a  young  man  in 


420  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

his  studies  for  the  ministry.  He  was  a  true  friend 
of  such  ministers  as  he  found  struggling  on  with  an 
inadequate  salary.  "I  have  known  him  (says  a 
brother)  more  than  once  to  preach  for  a  needy  min 
ister  on  the  Sabbath,  and  on  leaving  the  place  to 
send  him  a  very  generous  remembrance ;  a  sum  not 
much,  if  at  all,  less  than  the  largest  subscription 
among  that  people."  He  was  at  heart  a  sailor ;  often 
spoke  of  the  generosity  of  sailors,  and  what  he  thus 
commended  he  exemplified.  It  was  not  in  him  to 
turn  away  from  a  child  of  want.  He  obeyed  the  first 
impulse,  and  "  shelled  out,"  as  he  expressed  it.  He 
did  not  always  give  judiciously,  but  give  he  would, 
like  a  true  tar ;  he  felt  so,  and  did  not  stop  to  make 
inquiries. 

He  would  rather  have  been  cheated  ten  times  by 
fictitious  cases  of  distress,  though  the  draft  upon  his 
purse  were  ever  so  heavy,  than  refuse  a  single  worthy 
application,  where  his  assistance  was  really  needed. 
True  gallantry  of  manner  and  of  feeling  marked  his 
character,  which  was  never  deficient  in  spontaneous 
and  noble  impulses,  but  rather  in  the  power  of  re 
straint  from  prudential  considerations. 

In  the  twenty-five  years  between  his  graduation  at 
Andover  and  his  going  to  California,  he  laid  up  in 
store  but  very  little  for  himself,  though  nearly  all  the 
while  he  was  in  the  receipt  of  a  regular  salary.  He 
used  his  resources  too  freely  to  accumulate.  For 
many  years  he  was  thought  to  be  not  duly  careful  of 


SELF-COMMAND   AND    PHILOSOPHY. 


his  income.  "What  he  wanted  —  what  could  minister 
to  his  comfort  or  improvement  —  he  had,  if  he  could 
get  it.  He  never  stopped  to  deliberate  long  and 
carefully  011  such  a  question  as,  Can  I  get  along 
without  this  or  that  thing?  He  never  traced  out 
definitely  the  line  between  necessity  and  convenience, 
or  between  comfort  and  luxury.  "  Have  the  best 
gun  for  shot  in  the  country  put  in  complete  order, 
never  mind  the  expense  ;  I  would  not  miss  a  squirrel 
for  ten  dollars,  when  I  once  fire."  This  was  char 
acteristic  of  the  man,  and  in  this  he  was  not,  it  will 
be  admitted,  a  safe  model  for  general  imitation. 

Mr.  Colton  would  never  fret  himself  in  any  wise. 
Rarely,  if  ever,  was  he  seen  in  a  flutter  of  excite 
ment.  Though  constitutionally  sanguine  and  nervous, 
he  had  a  wonderful  self-control.  A  man  in  a  flutter 
was  to  him  a  ludicrous  spectacle.  He  used  to  say, 
"  Never  run  after  your  hat  in  the  wind  ;  let  it  fly,  but 
do  you  walk  deliberately  towards  it."  He  would 
liken  the  fluttering  to  "  an  old  hen  with  one  chicken, 
when  a  hawk  is  nigh."  He  maintained  that  it  be 
came  a  man  to  have  some  philosophy  about  him. 
Thwarted  in  his  first  choice,  he  therefore  knew  how 
to  put  up  with  the  next  best  thing.  If  the  boat  or 
train  of  cars  happened  to  start  five  minutes  too  soon 
for  him,  he  would  let  it  go  without  fuming,  and 
quietly  wait  for  the  next  conveyance. 

If  his  trunks  had  been  stolen,  (as  they  once  were 
in  Spain,)  he  appointed  himself  a  Committee  of 


422  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER    COLTON. 

"Ways  and  Means,  and  filled  that  honorable  office 
with  becoming  dignity.  The  mishap  should  not 
cheat  him  out  of  an  hour's  sleep,  or  destroy  his  relish 
for  a  Spanish  omelet  and  buccaronis ;  he  would  not 
be  chargeable  with  such  a  folly.  In  travelling,  he 
always  took  things  so  easily  that  a  friend  testifies, 
"I  have  travelled  hundreds  of  miles  with  him  in 
every  sort  of  craft,  and  have  no  recollection  of  having 
ever  seen  him  in  a  pet  or  flurry  from  mischances  in 
the  way." 

In  this  connection  it  is  to  be  observed  also,  that 
he  was  remarkable  for  his  regard  to  the  feelings  of 
others.  He  would  let  the  self-complacent  Bombastes 
or  fault-finder  utter  his  nonsense,  and  empty  his  con 
ceit  or  gall,  and  have  the  comfort  of  it.  To  utter 
ances  for  which  he  had  not  the  slightest  faith,  but 
rather  contempt,  he  would  often  make  no  reply,  but 
leave  the  utterer  silently  to  his  own  assertion.  This 
was  a  rule  with  him  in  relation  to  points  not  involving 
essential  principles.  But  if  he  was  attacked  on  a 
principle,  he  answered  instantly,  and  with  some  one 
word  or  sentence  that  was  at  once  conclusive.  The 
retort  was  quick  as  a  flash,  and  the  matter  was  over 
before  the  assailant  could  recover  himself. 

"  He  would  sometimes,  for  a  purpose,  wake  up  a 
fellow-passenger  by  a  remark  naturally  enough  to  be 
understood  as  offensively  personal.  You  saw  the 
storm  rising.  But  just  at  the  right  point  he  would 
give  some  dexterous  turn,  and  all  was  smooth  again. 


MORAL    COURAGE   AS   A   MINISTER.  423 

He  knew  how  far  he  could  safely  venture,  and  having 
gone  thus  far,  could  c  bring  up'  all  standing,  and  all 
good  friends  as  before." 

In  the  office  of  reproving  sin  as  a  Christian  min 
ister,  he  evinced  true  moral  courage  and  fidelity  to 
his  Master,  as  the  following  anecdote,  among  others, 
will  show.  On  one  occasion,  when  out  at  sea,  the 
ship  he  was  in  encountered,  early  on  a  Sunday  morn 
ing,  a  severe  squall.  The  commander,  in  issuing  his 
orders,  as  at  that  time  especially  was  too  frequently 
the  case,  employed  also  exceedingly  profane  lan 
guage,  which  Mr.  Colton  and  all  the  officers  and 
crew  heard.  At  length  the  gale  subsided,  and  the 
signal  was  given  for  all  hands  to  assemble  for  public 
worship. 

Mr.  Colton  well  knew  that  the  commander  was  a 
severe  and  impetuous  man,  but  he  knew  also  that 
he  himself  had  a  duty  to  perform,  and  he  was 
resolved  to  do  it  faithfully,  and  abide  the  conse 
quences.  Accordingly,  after  the  preliminary  services 
he  arose,  and  while  the  commander,  directly  in  front, 
was  intently  gazing  on  him,  he  announced  as  his  text, 
"  Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God 
in  vain."  He  described  the  folly,  the  vulgarity,  and 
the  exceeding  sinfulness  of  profanity ;  and  then  the 
aggravated  guilt  of  this  sin,  when  committed  by  those 
occupying  places  of  authority,  where  their  example 
would  influence  others;  and  the  absurdity  of  any 
commander  of  a  ship  supposing  that  he  could  main-r 


424:  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 


tain  obedience  and  morality  in  a  ship's  crew,  when 
he  himself  put  at  defiance  the  commands  of  the 
great  Ruler,  and  placed  an  example  of  gross  im 
morality  before  them  in  his  own  conduct. 

Shortly  after  the  service  Mr.  Colton  received  orders 
to  appear  in  the  commander's  apartment.  He  went, 
expecting  a  severe  reprimand  or  personal  abuse.  But 
no  sooner  had  he  entered  the  apartment  than  the 
commander  rose,  took  him  cordially  by  the  hand, 
and  said,  "  I  thank  you  for  your  faithful  discourse. 
I  deserved  it  all,  and  by  God's  help  I  will  strive  to 
sin  no  more."  Many  similar  instances  might  be 
cited  of  his  usefulness  and  fidelity  in  his  official  rela 
tions  as  Naval  Chaplain. 

II.  His  CONVERSATIONAL  SKILL.  The  art  of  conversa 
tion  is  by  no  means  cultivated  by  learned  and  literary 
men  in  American  society,  as  it  is  in  Europe,  or  as  its 
importance,  as  a  vehicle  of  pleasure  and  instruction, 
demands.  Americans  are  generally  good  at  speech- 
making,  but  poor  at  talking.  But  with  Mr.  Colton 
the  art  of  conversation,  without  ever  appearing  as  an 
art,  was  innate  and  spontaneous.  It  was  congenital, 
and  grew  with  his  growth.  By  his  friends  there  was 
said  to  be  an  indescribable  charm  about  him  in  this 
respect — a  fascination  that  always  captivated. 

He  was  not  remarkable  for  his  fluency,  was  sparing 
in  his  words,  said  his  thing  with  emphasis  and  point, 
and  then  stopped.  But  he  could  tell  a  story  with  an 
effect  which  few  could  equal.  He  always  remem- 


APTNESS   FOR  ENTERTAINING.  425 

bered  that  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  distance  be 
tween  two  points,  and  he  went  direct  to  the  conclu 
sion,  with  an  arch  play  of  the  fancy,  and  a  celerity 
of  movement  that  never  tired.  He  had  no  patience 
with  a  bore  for  a  story-teller,  but  would  bring  him 
up  to  the  conclusion  as  quick  as  he  could  with  any 
decency. 

He  ever  studied  strength,  brevity,  point,  and  pith. 
He  was  incessantly  conning  over  expressions  and 
sentences  to  find  the  last  analysis,  wherever  he  might 
be,  and  in  whatsoever  engaged.  While  he  read  and 
reread  those  authors  which  would  help  him  best  to 
a  terse  and  nervous  style,  his  numbers  must  be  har 
monious  and  strike  his  musical  ear  gratefully. 

It  will  be  considered,  says  a  friend,  "  as  a  fault  of 
his  writings,  that  he  used  too  many  epithets — too 
many  adjectives,  and  especially  participial  adjectives. 
But  you  never  heard  any  thing  like  this  in  his  con 
versation.  Here  every  thing  redundant  was  left  out. 
He  was  deemed  remarkable  in  conversation  from  his 
early  childhood.  Persons  much  older  than  himself 
were  charmed  at  hearing  him  talk.  This  became  a 
snare  to  him,  and  one  of  the  reasons  with  his  father 
for  sending  him  away  from  home  to  Hartford,  was 
(as  we  have  already  seen)  to  get  him  away  from  a 
circle  of  adults,  of  which  he  had  become  the  special 
attraction." 

This  faculty  of  entertaining,  and  a  fondness  for 
society  that  made  him  always  and  everywhere  a  wel- 


426  MEMOIR  OF  WALTER  COT/TON. 

come  associate,  he  retained  through  life.  In  later 
years  his  extensive  and  various  travel  "  had  left  upon 
his  memory  a  thousand  delightful  pictures,  which 
were  reflected  in  his  conversation  so  distinctly,  and 
with  such  skilful  preparation  of  the  mind,  that  his 
companions  lived  over  his  life  with  him,  as  often  as 
he  chose  to  summon  its  scenes  before  them." 

When  in  a  genial  mood,  and  the  occasion  and 
company  would  bear  it,  he  was  prone  to  be  playful 
and  jocular,  full  of  good-natured  wit,  and  quick  at 
an  impromptu  or  repartee.  The  following  was  an 
off-hand  "delicate  fling  upon  an  epicurean  fellow- 
boarder," — a  literary  lady,  bon-vivant  in  her  way — 
that  cared  more  than  was  meet  for  her  meals,  and 
was  put  out  of  humor  if  called  upon  while  enjoying 
them : 

If  you  should  call  too  soon  or  late, 

To  find  Miss  X.  Y.  in, 
Just  scratch  your  name  upon  her  slate, 

And  hang  it  up  again. 

But  do  not  call  when  she  is  down 

To  breakfast,  tea,  or  dinner, 
For  you'll  be  called  an  awkward  clown, 

Or  some  poor  stupid  sinner 

On  another  occasion,  at  Saratoga  Springs,  he  was 
in  the  company  of  a  lady  who  declared  her  unbelief 
in  the  common  notion,  that  the  gas  of  High  Rock 
Spring  would  destroy  the  life  of  a  chicken  in  a  few 
seconds,  and  herself  narrowly  escaped  death  while 


READINESS   IN   IMPROMPTUS.  427 

rashly  holding  her  head  over  the  escaping  vapor,  by 
way  of  experiment.  When  the  party  were  after 
wards  sitting  at  the  dinner-table,  Mr.  Colton  was 
called  upon  for  an  epitaph  on  the  rash  lady,  and  at 
once  gave  the  following  : 

Here  lies  one  who  went  a-trickiug — 
She  died  by  gas,  as  dies  a  chick-en  1 

The  lady  being  dissatisfied  with  this,  requested  a 
second  epitaph  more  eulogistic  and  complimentary. 
Another  was  therefore  given  impromptu,  at  the  table 
as  before : 

Here  lies  one 

Who  had  the  pluck 
To  laugh  at  life's  uncertain  taper ; 

She  died  one  day, 

As  dies  a  duck, 
Killed  by  the  High  Rock's  noxious  vapor. 

A  more  elaborate  impromptu  was  once  written 
by  him  on  reading  the  last  proof  of  Mr.  Randolph's 
speech : 

Of  Randolph  all  will  promptly  say, 
He  does  not  fear  the  face  of  Clay. 
With  flashing  eye,  and  lofty  mien, 
With  classic  tongue,  and  satire  keen — 
With  legs  so  thin,  and  hair  so  long, — 
With  frame  so  weak,  and  mind  so  strong, — 
In  form,  in  words,  in  voice  unique, 
Who  does  not  love  to  hear  him  speak  ? 
His  Arab  shaft  who  does  not  feel, 
That  dares  provoke  the  dreaded  steel  ? 


428  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

And  yet,  so  still,  so  swift  it  flies, 

The  foe,  or  ere  he  feels  it,  dies. 

He  rises — and  the  busy  hum 

Is  hushed :  e'en  beauty's  self  is  dumb : 

And  as  his  accents  pierce  the  ear, 

Wit  learns,  and  Wisdom  stoops  to  hear. 

III.    HlS  APTNESS  TO  MATTTC  AND   KEEP  FRIENDS.      Mr. 

Colton's  disposition  was  finely  molded  to  make  him 
the  agreeable  companion  and  trusty  friend.  Frank, 
prompt,  and  generous  almost  to  a  fault,  in  all  his 
impulses  and  acts,  it  was  not  necessary  to  study  him 
long  or  watch  him  closely  in  order  to  find  out  his  pe 
culiarities,  and  then  to  be  left  in  uncertainty  whether 
you  really  comprehended  him  or  not.  He  wore  no 
mask,  and  put  on  no  grimaces.  He  was  so  open  and 
undisguised  in  word  and  deed,  as  even  somewhat  at 
times  to  affect  his  standing  for  sobriety,  with  persons 
who  did  not  know  him  intimately,  or  who  were  apt 
to  mistake  the  instance  f9r  the  essence,  and  who  were 
not  qualified  to  appreciate  the  movements  of  an  hon 
est  and  joyous  heart,  not  least  devout  when  most  de 
lighted. 

His  lively  sensibilities  responded  to  every  touch 
of  humanity;  but  while  ready  to  weep  with  those 
who  wept,  it  was  more  his  nature  to  rejoice  with 
those  who  rejoiced.  For  the  most  of  his  life  the 
world  seemed  to  him  clad  in  smiles  and  not  in  sables ; 
and  he  was  not  disposed  to  steep  its  pleasant  herbs 
with  wormwood.  His  views  of  man  and  of  human 


WARMTH    AND   WORTH   AS   A   FRIEND.  429 

progress  continued  cheerful  to  the  close  of  life,  not 
withstanding  all  he  learned  of  the  world  in  a  wide 
and  varied  intercourse  with  humanity. 

In  his  dealings  with  men,  while  there  was  not  to 
be  discovered  any  trace  of  cold,  sinister,  cynic  calcu 
lation,  he  was  far  from  being  of  that  reckless,  unre 
flecting  class  who  have  no  prudence,  and  can  never 
learn  wisdom.  A  clerical  friend  in  the  city  of  Phila 
delphia  says  of  him :  "It  had  been  my  privilege  for 
many  years  to  enjoy  the  intimate  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  Colton ;  and  especially  so  during  his  residence 
in  this  city.  Kind,  generous,  and  affectionate  in  his 
own  nature,  he  became  tenderly  endeared  to  his 
many  friends ;  and  other  eyes  besides  those  of  his 
bereaved  and  sorrowing  family  have  paid  the  tribute 
of  tears  to  his  memory.  From  the  great  intelligence, 
the  chaste  and  lively  wit,  (tempered  always  by  Chris 
tian  propriety  and  benevolence,)  the  uniform  cheer 
fulness  and  kindness  of  his  nature,  Mr.  Colton  was 
always  a  welcome  guest  and  an  agreeable  companion. 
No  one  could  converse  with  him  without  gaining 
some  new  thought  or  useful  information,  which,  from 
the  courtesy  of  his  manner,  was  communicated  in 
the  most  agreeable  way,  and  therefore  left  the  most 
abiding  impression." 

Few,  indeed,  could  win  the  affections  of  men  like 
the  subject  of  this  Memoir,  and  there  was  a  large 
reason  for  it.  He  had  those  very  qualities  which 
first  attract  and  then  rivet  friend  to  friend.  With  a 


430  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

genial  warmth  of  heart,  and  stirred,  as  we  have  seen, 
by  noble  impulses,  he  loved  his  friends  strongly,  and 
never  stooped  to  meanness  or  suspicion.  He  had 
also  a  quick,  instinctive  discernment  of  the  proprie 
ties  of  demeanor  and  address ;  and  he  observed  those 
proprieties  in  their  nicest  and  most  delicate  shades — 
kind,  careful,  and  courteous,  in  every  thing. 

Few  could  so  fix  the  attention,  or  so  enlist  the  in 
terest  of  persons  in  the  casual  intercourse  of  society, 
as  Mr.  Colton.  The  stranger  always  wanted  to  hear 
more  from  that  little  man,  for  there  was  that  in  his 
eye  and  mouth,  in  his  tones  of  voice,  in  his  emphasis, 
and  pith,  and  gesture,  that  went  to  the  heart.  He 
did  not  win  by  any  arts,  but  simply  acted  out  him 
self.  A  friend  says  of  him  that  he  "always  was 
himself,  neither  less  nor  more.  He  seemed  to  be 
totally  unconscious  of  his  power  in  this  respect.  He 
probably  was  unconscious  of  it  in  the  main.  When 
flattered,  he  was  not  made  vain,  but  had  the  sense  to 
see  through  it.  What  honors  he  had  he  bore  meekly. 
It  were  speaking  within  the  bounds  of  literal  truth  to 
say  that  few  men  ever  had  more  friends,  or  warmer 
friends.  There  are  those  who  know,  and  whose 
throbbing  hearts  testify." 

Mr.  Colton  was  also  a  dutiful  son,  and  an  affec 
tionate,  noble  brother.  He  truly  reverenced  and 
loved  his  father  and  mother :  his  filial  affection  was 
proved  through  life  in  a  thousand  ways,  which  it 
were  intruding  upon  the  sanctity  of  domestic  life 


INDEPENDENCE   AS   A   MINISTEE.  431 

to  make  public.  He  always  held  that  no  one  of  the 
family,  having  the  power  to  help,  should  leave  a 
brother  or  sister  to  suffer  need ;  and  he  was  himself, 
as  his  life  has  shown,  ever  as  good  as  his  word. 

Mr.  Colton,  as  a  minister,  was  characterized  by  in 
dependence  and  liberality,  and  by  his  charitable 
judgments  of  men  of  different  creeds.  He  was  com 
mitted  to  no  party :  while  firmly  grounded  himself  in 
the  great  doctrines  of  New  England  Calvinism,  he 
was  always  at  the  widest  remove  from  bigotry.  He 
could  acknowledge  and  admire  true  religion  wherever 
found. 

From  the  natural  turn  of  his  mind,  and  from  a 
wide  intercourse  with  men,  he  was  remarkably  exempt 
from  narrow  views  and  prejudices,  and  he  never  had 
what  is  called  a  sectarian  feeling.  He  thought,  acted, 
and  felt  on  a  large  scale.  His  knowledge,  too,  as 
well  as  his  feeling,  was  extended  and  general,  and 
he  attached  to  himself  men  of  most  opposite  views. 
"When  invited  once  to  take  a  seat  in  the  General 
Assembly,  and  inquired  of  as  to  which  school  he  be 
longed,  the  Old  or  New,  he  answered  in  a  moment, 
"  I  paddle  my  own  canoe."  Bancroft  Library 

What  the  Subject  of  this  Memoir  was  as  a  Hus 
band  and  Father,  we  have  already  learned,  in  part, 
through  his  letters  and  acts.  A  friend  who  stood  by 
him  on  the  day  when  she  whom  he  most  truly  and 
fondly  loved  became  his  wife,  has  left  with  his  biog 
rapher  this  tribute,  referring  to  that  happy  occasion. 


432  MEMOIR   OF   WALTER   COLTON. 

"  The  warm  affections  of  his  nature  then  found  their 
chosen  and  most  worthy  object :  the  wish  of  his  life 
was  fulfilled.  Happy  were  all  his  friends  in  the  pure, 
delicious  happiness  which  evidently  filled  his  heart, 
large  as  were  its  capacities,  and  which  beamed  forth 
in  every  look,  and  uttered  its  spirit  in  every  accent. 

"  Not  half  that  he  felt,  not  half  that  he  afterwards 
fulfilled  in  the  care,  the  tenderness,  the  love  of  a 
husband,  was  expressed  in  his  solemn  vows.  And 
afterwards,  when,  sternly  obedient  to  his  duty,  he  tore 
himself  even  from  the  smiles  of  that  chosen  one,  and 
went  forth  over  rough  seas  to  distant  and  sickly 
climes,  distance  divided  not  his  heart  nor  his  spirit 
from  her,  as  his  frequent  letters  and  his  tender  strains 
of  soul-stirring  poetry  sufficiently  show.  Nor  can 
we  doubt  that  although  he  is  now  removed  to  the 
happy  and  holy  society  above,  the  memory  of  those 
who  were  dear  to  him  is  still  cherished ;  and  the 
period  anticipated  with  unutterable  joy  when  those 
who  were  his  friends  and  companions  on  earth,  shall 
be  his  friends  and  companions  in  heaven.  What  a 
blessing  is  such  a  man  to  his  friends,  daily  and  hourly 
bestowing  benefits  on  all  who  come  within  the  circle 
of  his  influence !  and  what  a  loss  does  society  sustain 
when  such  a  man. is  taken  from  us !" 

IY.    HlS  TACT  AND  WIT  IN  DEALING  WITH  MEN.       Ml*. 

Colton's  quick  insight  and  discernment  of  human 
character  and  motives,  and  his  forethought  in  avoid 
ing,  and  address  in  overcoming  difficulties  between 


THE   TRIBUTE   OF   A   CLASSMATE.  433 

man  and  man,  were  perhaps  as  remarkable  as  any 
other  traits  in  his  character.  The  future  Alcalde, 
said  one  of  his  college  classmates,  "  showed  his  quick 
invention  and  his  decision  in  some  amusing  ways  in 
college :  on  one  occasion,  I  recollect,  while  he  had 
charge  of  the  chapel  bell,  some  students  had  spent 
half  the  night  in  the  usual  trick  of  cutting  the  rope 
and  nailing  up  the  doors,  so  that  they  might  not  be 
called  to  morning  prayers ;  when,  behold !  to  his  de 
light  and  their  dismay,  within  a  few  minutes  beyond 
the  usual  time,  the  bell  rang  out  most  clear  and  lus 
tily.  Mr.  Colton  had  contrived  to  cut  through  the 
obstacles  and  get  at  the  rope. 

"  From  other  instances  of  a  similar  kind  it  became 
pretty  generally  felt,  that  it  was  hardly  worth  while 
to  attempt  to  get  the  better  of  Colton  in  any  thing 
that  required  decision  or  address.  He  would  find, 
or  he  would  make  a  way.  His  ready  wit  was  one  of 
the  most  characteristic  and  obvious  things  about  him. 
Always  at  hand,  always  in  play  when  opportunity 
presented ;  sportive  and  gay,  glancing  like  sunbeams 
upon  placid  waters,  venting  itself  in  a  pun,  or  in  quick 
repartee,  or  in  innocent  raillery,  but  with  not  the 
slightest  shade  of  malice  or  ill-nature  to  give  it  a 
cutting  edge,  it  always  amused  and  often  instructed. 

"  While  I  recollect  this  trait  of  character  well,  I 
do  not  recall  a  single  sarcasm,  or  sneer,  or  biting 
personal  reflection,  that  could  pain  the  most  sensi 
tive,  or  excite  the  enmity  of  any  of  his  college-mates. 

19 


434  MEMOIR   OP   WALTER   COLTON. 

Indeed,  I  do  not  believe  he  had  an  enemy  in  the 
whole  institution — of  itself  sufficient  evidence  of  the 
character  of  his  witticisms — and  this  was  not  from 
mere  weak  good-nature  ;  for  he  had  strong  positive 
qualities,  and  his  wit  was  often  pointed  enough ;  but 
it  was  from  an  exuberant  good-nature,  which  con 
trolled  his  combative  propensities,  played  round  his 
conversation,  and  frequently  helped  his  wit  to  turn 
into  a  laugh  what  a  less  amiable  temper,  in  union 
with  such  ready  powers  of  ridicule,  would  probably 
have  converted  into  a  quarrel. 

"  Of  a  long  roll  of  class-mates,  an  unusual  propor 
tion  of  whom  have  rendered  themselves  eminent  in 
different  departments  of  professional  and  active  life, 
many  have  already  departed.  Every  year  dimin 
ishes  the  number  of  the  living,  and  enlarges  the 
starred  catalogue  of  those  who  are  removed  from  all 
participation  in  the  concerns  of  time  and  of  earth. 
However  diverse  may  have  been  their  courses,  how 
ever  wide  the  circle  they  may  have  filled,  however 
beloved,  useful,  eminent,  any  of  them  may  have  be 
come,  and  whatever  memorial  may  remain  of  their 
lives  or  deeds,  I  doubt  whether  any  will  leave  to 
survivors  a  more  kindly,  tender  remembrance  than 
Walter  Colton.  His  was  a  generous  nature ;  and  by 
his  talents  he  achieved  a  position  and  fame  which,  in 
our  college  days,  few  would  have  predicted. 

"  In  the  path  into  which  Providence  led  him,  he 
was  conspicuous  and  useful.  The  varied  phases  of 


CONSOLATIONS   TO   SURVIVING   FRIENDS.  435 

his  active  life  strikingly  illustrate  the  text,  that  the 
way  of  man  is  not  in  himself ;  it  is  not  in  man  that 
walketh  to  direct  his  steps.  He  leaves  a  name  un 
tarnished,  so  far  as  I  have  ever  heard,  by  a  mean 
ness  or  a  crime.  The  piety  he  early  professed  was, 
it  is  firmly  believed,  a  growing  principle.  It  evolved 
itself  in  the  active  duties  of  his  sphere,  and  we  trust 
its  hopes  are  realized,  its  ends  attained  in  the  king 
dom  of  our  Father  and  Saviour  above." 

In  closing  this  volume  of  relics  and  memorials,  and 
in  parting  with  a  man  in  whose  society  we  seem  to 
have  been  tarrying  so  long,  through  the  leaves  of 
this  book,  as  to  have  contracted  for  him  a  true 
friendship,  the  Editor  may  be  allowed  to  refer  the 
hearts  that  still  bleed  at  the  wounds  made  by  his 
death,  to  the  admirable  sentiments  of  the  late  Dr. 
"Waugh  of  London,  in  his  letters  of  consolation  to 
bereaved  friends. 

"  It  is  not,"  says  he,  "  so  much  the  innate  worth 
and  beauty  of  objects  that  give  them  influence,  as 
the  habit  of  thinking  on  them,  and  bringing  them 
near  to  the  mind.  "Now  this  is  always  in  our  power. 
We  may  walk  with  our  departed  friends,  and  hold 
rational  and  devout  converse  with  their  spirits,  with 
out  the  medium  of  body.  This  mental  intercourse 
cannot  fail  to  aid  mightily  the  culture  of  those  moral 
habits  and  dispositions  which  will  fit  us  in  due  time 
for  mingling  in  their  society,  and  for  that  exalted 


436  MEMOIR  OF  WALTER  COLTON. 

state  of  being  and  blessedness  to  which  we  are  called. 
It  is  thus  we  hold  fellowship  with  the  Redeemer 
himself,  whom,  though  now  we  see  him  not,  we  su 
premely  love,  and  in  whom  we  fully  confide. 

"  Were  our  friends  as  valuable  as  our  fancy  paints 
them,  let  us  bless  God  that  we  had  such  a  treasure 
to  surrender ;  and  let  us  try  to  make  the  surrender 
without  the  reluctance  of  excessive  affection.  It  is 
giving  up  a  jewel  which  Christ  claims,  and  which  he 
will  fix  in  his  mediatorial  crown  to  sparkle,  in  the 
perfection  of  holiness,  to  all  eternity. 

"  In  the  removal  of  friends  there  is  an  additional 
motive  to  long  and  prepare  for  heaven ;  and  the  ob 
ligation  is  doubled  to  minister  to  the  welfare  of  those 
on  earth,  who  have  not  now  the  counsels  or  exam 
ples  which  they  once  had  to  guide  them  to  piety. 
The  tender  connections  of  life,  when  cemented  by 
piety,  may  by  death  be  suspended,  but  cannot  be  de 
stroyed." 

That  the  aspirations  of  the  departed  father,  whose 
varied  life  and  labors  we  have  herein  traced,  may  be 
realized  for  the  surviving  boy  Walter,  and  that  he 
may  prove  a  son  worthy  of  his  sire,  so  as  nobly  to 
sustain  his  honored  name,  is  the  earnest  wish  of  the 
biographer.  For  his  help  in  the  formation  of  such  a 
character  as  his  father  would  desire,  we  commend 
the  foregoing  pages  to  the  perusal  of  the  lad  as  life 
advances,  hoping  especially  that  he  will  remember 
all  they  say  upon  the  Worth,  Dignity,  and  Destiny 


A   GOOD   HOPE   OF   HEAVEN.  437 

of  the  Soul,  and  the  sin  and  danger  of  neglecting 
Christ ;  and  when  the  son  has  lived  his  life  on 
earth,  beloved  and  useful  like  the  father,  may  he 
join  him  in  the  realm  of  the  blessed,  through  like 
precious  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 


THE   END. 


THE  ISLAND  WORLD  OF  THE  PACIFIC: 

BEING  THE  PERSONAL  NARRATIVE  AND   RESULTS  OF  TRAVEL    THROUGH   THE 
SANDWICH  OR  HAWAIIAN  ISLANDS  AND  OTHER  PARTS  OF  POLYNESIA. 

WITH  ENGRAVINGS.       12MO.,  MUSLIN,  $1.00. 

BY     REV,    HENRY     T,    C  H  E  £  V  E  R, 

THIS  is  a  volume  worthy  of  the  age,  and  of  the  present  wants  of  the  world.  We 
have  perused  it  with  unmingled  pleasure  and  delight,  and  promise  any  one  who 
will  take  the  trouble  to  open  it,  an  amount  and  richness  of  information  relative  to 
the  Polynesian  world,  to  be  obtained  from  no  other  source.  It  is  copiously  illus 
trated,  and  written  in  a  flowing  style,  and  with  the  marks  of  keen  observation, 
Christian  philosophy,  and  a  critical  insight  into  the  world's  woes,  wants,  and  bless 
ings,  stamped  on  every  page.  In  it  are  passages  and  chapters  of  exceeding  beauty 
of  description.  The  chapter  on  the  Albatross,  that  glorious  bird  of  the  sea,  is 
worth  the  price  of  the  volume. — American  Spectator. 

The  volume  presents  a  mass  of  information  with  regard  to  the  history,  geography, 
and  commercial  and  political  condition  of  those  islands,  brought  down  to  the  pres 
ent  time,  and  digested  into  a  compact  and  readable  form.  His  book  cannot  fail  to 
be  widely  read  during  the  present  excitement  in  regard  lo  every  thing  connected 
with  the  Pacific  Ocean.— Mew  York  Tribune. 

It  is  full  of  information  and  life,  telling  stories  of  land  and  sea  in  a  way  to  stir 
the  passion  for  adventure  without  harm  to  the  sobriety  of  the  reader's  temper,  or 
the  steadfastness  of  his  faith.  We  need  such  books  always,  and  especially  now, 
when  a  new  age  of  marine  adventure  is  awakened,  and  our  youth  are  taking  with 
fresh  zeal  to  the  seas.  Voyages  are  always  captivating  to  the  young,  and  happy  is 
it  when  the  story  is  told  by  a  Christian  or  a  man  of  taste.  The  book  is  just  the 
thing  for  the  host  of  boys  between  fourteen  and  twenty,  the  mighty  generation 
now  starting  on  the  race  or  voyage  of  life. — Christian  Enquirer. 

A  charming  book  which  we  can  read  with  confidence  in  the  author's  statements, 
and  with  unflagging  interest  in  the  fresh  scenes  which  they  bring  so  vividly  before 
our  minds.  It  is  a  most  instructive  book  for  young  persons.  The  ocean  paradises 
of  which  it  makes  report  to  us,  will  ere  long  be  visited  by  summer  tourists.— 
Unitarian  Quarterly  Examiner. 


MEMORIALS  OF  CAPTAIN  OBADIAH  CONGAR : 

FOR  FIFTY  YEARS  MARINER  AND  SHIPMASTER    FROM  THE    PORT 
OF  NEW  YORK. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  WHALE  AND  HIS  CAPTORS,"  AND  "  ISLAND  WORLD 
OF  THE  PACIFIC." 

16MO.,  MUSLIN,  50  CENTS. 

THIS  is  a  fitting  monument  to  the  memory  of  an  old  sailor,  who,  after  having 
weathered  many  storms  on  the  ocean  of  life,  arrived  safe,  at  an  advanced  age,  in 
the  haven  of  everlasting  rest.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  interesting  incident  in  his 
life,  but  the  most  interesting  circumstance  is  that,  in  spite  of  the  peculiar  tempta 
tions  to  which  his  profession  exposed  him,  he  maintained  a  close  and  humble 
walk  with  God.  It  is  proper  that  the  example  of  such  a  man  should  be  embalmed, 
and  Mr.  Cheever  has  done  it  well. — New  York  Observer. 

The  individuality  described,  is  that  of  a  man  exposed  to  the  varied  temptations 
and  distractions  of  a  sailor's  life,  but  still  drawn  heavenward  by  the  influence  of 
the  spirit  of  God,  and  describing  in  a  simple  and  unaffected  manner  the  influence 
of  God's  mercies  and  chastisements  in  the  formation  of  his  character  as  a  Christian. 
The  tone  of  the  book  is  healthy  and  liberal ;  it  appears  to  contain  much  to  recom 
mend  it  to  the  perusal  of  those  who  are  looking  to  God  as  their  "  ever  present  help 
in  every  time  of  trouble."  The  author  already  enjoys  a  high  reputation  from  hia 
"  Island  World  of  the  Pacific." — Parker's  Journal. 


A.  8.  BARNES    4    COMPANY'S    PUBLICATIONS. 
Cotton's    Three    Years    in    California. 


THREE    YEARS    IN    CALIFORNIA. 

BY  REV.  WALTER  COLTON,  U.  S.  N, 

LA.TK    ALCALDE    OF   MONTEREY. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


*  A  rare  work  this  for  ability,  interest,  information,  mirth,  and  aa  the  most  recent  and 
most  authentic  history  of  California,  since  it  came  under  the  American  flag.  It  con 
tains  excellent  portraits  of  Messrs.  Sutler,  Larkin,  Fremont,  Gwinn,  Wright,  and 
Snyder,  with  numerous  and  humorous  illustrations ;  a  list  of  the  members  of  the  Con 
vention  which  organized  the  State  of  California ;  a  chart  of  the  -  Declaration  of 
Rights?  with  fac-similea  of  the  signatures,  &c.  Nothing  of  interest  to  the  public  in 
the  rapid  growth  of  this  new  world,  its  towns,  villages,  and  settlements,  its  gold  digging, 
gold  explorations,  &c.,  escapes  the  notice  of  the  author ;  and  the  pictures  he  has  given 
of  California  life  and  manners  are  at  the  same  time  graphic,  instructive,  and  often  in 
the  most  provoking  degree  mirthful." — National  Intelligencer. 


u  It  is  the  best  history  of  California  that  has  appeared,  and  will  prove  as  instructive 
as  it  is  interesting  and  provocative  of  mirth." — Rochester  Democrat. 


uThis  work  is  an  authentic  history  of  California,  from  the  time  it  came  under  the 
flag  of  the  United  States  down  to  this  present,  explorations,  new  settlements,  and  mM 
diggings.  While  the  reader  is  instructed  on  every  page,  he  will  laugh  about  a  hundred 
if  not  a  thousand  times  before  he  gets  through  this  captivating  volume,  and  though  lie 
aits  alone  in  his  chair.  It  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  book  of  fact;  next  to  the  remarkable 
and  ludicrous  peculiarities  of  California  life  and  manners,  are  an  incessant  provocation 
to  make  one  laugh  ;  and  the  author  being  a  poet,  gives  us  a  fine  relish  of  that  every 
now  and  then."—  Washington  Republic. 


"The  anticipations  of  those  who  expected  from  Mr.  Colton  a  book  about  California 
at  once  reliable  and  entertaining,  comprehensive  and  concise,  instructive  and  lively— 
in  fact,  just  what  a  work  of  the  kind  ought  to  be,  but  what  a  majority  of  the  numerous 
accounts  heretofore  published  are  not — will  be  abundantly  realized  on  perusal  of  thia 
volume.  Mr.  Colton,  besides  possessing  the  various  qualifications  of  an  intelligent  ob 
server — a  highly-cultivated  mind,  stored  with  ample  material  for  comparison,  in  the 
fruits  of  years  spent  in  travel  in  every  part  of  the  world,  and  intercourse  with  numerous 
peoples — enjoyed  peculiar  advantages  for  becoming  acquainted  with  California,  in  his 
long  residence  there ;  in  his  exalted  official  position,  which  made  him  the  associate  and 
counsellor  of  the  highest  functionaries  in  the  province  ;  in  a  philosophical  disinterested 
ness,  which,  while  it  raised  him  above  the  scramble  for  treasure,  enabled  him  calmly 
to  survey  the  field  ot  action,  and  describe  the  operations  of  the  scramblers;  and, 
finally,  in  an  elevated  personal  character,  which  commanded  the  respect  and  won  the 
confidence  and  regard  of  all  classes  of  the  people." — Journal  of  Commerce. 

ult  is  thi  inont  instructive  work  on  CoUiorniu  wo  have  «*m." — Commerc 


A.  S.  BARNES    <fe    COMPANY'S    PUBLICATIONS 
Colt  on' s    Three    Years    in    California. 

"It  is  certainly  refreshing  to  find  such  a  book  as  this  one,  after  having  vainly 
searched  for  something  authentic,  'true  to  nature,'  and  at  the  same  time  readable, 
among  the  thousands  which  have  been  issued  from  the  prolific  press  since  the  dis 
covery  of 'El  Dorado.'  We  hail  it  as  almost  as  dear  a  treasure  as  would  be  &e  dis 
covery  of  a  rich  '  placer,'  were  we  upon  the  veritable  soil  of  California.  We  have 
stolen  time  during  the  past  week  to  hastily  glance  over  the  pages  of  Mr.  Colton'a 
book,  and  our  opinion,  before  very  high,  because  of  the  encomiums  universally  bestowed 
upon  it  by  our  contemporaries,  has  rather  been  increased,  certainly  not  diminished,  and 
we  think  a  more  careful  perusal  will  well  repay.  Our  longing  upon  this  point  has 
been  satiated,  and  we  can  safely  say  that  we  have  gained  more  of  a  knowledge  01 
California,  as  it  was  before,  and  as  it  has  been  since  the  discovery  of  gold  in  its  soil." 
—Syracuse  Journal. 

"Mr.  Colton  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  of  American  writers.  His  ideas  flow  as  it 
were  spontaneously — one  moment  grave,  then  gay.  One  moment  we  feel,  while 
reading  his  books,  like  weeping  at  some  well-drawn  picture,  and  the  next,  we  can 
hardly  keep  from  splitting  our  sides  with  laughter,  at  some  brilliant,  mirth-provoking 
expression." — Republican  Advocate. 


"There  never  was  a  better  illustration  of  the  saying,  that  'Truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction,'  than  is  found  in  this  narrative.  Truly,  the  real  is  a  more  wonderful  world  than 
the  ideal.  When  the  writer  of  this  interesting  and  delightful  book  landed  at  San 
Francisco,  California  was  a  dependency  of  the  Republic  of  Mexico ;  but  when  he  left 
it,  in  all  but  In  name,  it  was  a  State  of  the  American  Union :  now  it  is  one.  Its  newly 
risen,  but  glorious  star  is  shining  in  the  bright  constellation  where  clusters  the  stars  of 
Us  sister  States ;  its  senators  and  representatives  are  sitting  with  those  of  the  other 
members  of  the  Confederacy  in  the  halls  of  the  national  legislature,  at  Washington. 
The  causes  that  have  been  so  busily  at  work  in  producing  this  series  of  astonishing 
changes,  are  all  truthfully  detailed  in  this  narrative,  as  they  occurred  from  day  to  day, 
and  as  they  came  under  the  keen  but  discriminating  observation  of  one  who  had  the 
best  opportunity  of  knowing,  as  well  as  the  happiest  manner  of  relating  them.  Any 
thing  like  an  analysis  of  a  volume  so  filled  as  this  is  with  striking  incidents,  crowding 
one  after  another  in  such  rapid  succession,  is  impossible.  As  we  read  on  from  page  to 
page,  we  become  more  and  more  interested,  as  the  things  which  it  records  become 
more  and  more  important,  until  we  seem  to  partake  of  the  wild  enthusiasm  that  must 
have  been  felt  by  the  immediate  actors  in  these  imposing  but  exciting  scenes  of  a  most 
eventful  drama.  For  once  the  sober  dignity  of  history  is  compelled  to  put  on  the  airs 
and  charms  of  romance.  This  beautiful  volume  can  be  read  with  mingled  pleasure 
and  profit  by  all  who  wish  to  get  correct  ideas  of  the  golden  land,  towards  which  all 
eyes  are  now  turned." — Niagara  Democrat. 


"  A  full  account  of  the  appearance  of  that  curious  disease,  'the  gold  fever,'  from  the 
first  scattering  cases  up  to  the  time  when  the  whole  population  was  infected,  is  admirably 
given,  with  strange  and  amusing  illustrations  of  individual  attacks.  For  the  purpose  of 
fully  studying  the  disease,  the  worthy  alcalde  himself  repaired  to  the  mines,  and  observed 
it  in  all  its  glory.  His  descriptions,  therefore,  must  be  perfect,  from  having  been  mado 
upon  the  spot.  The  well-known  ability  and  position  of  the  author,  fitted  him  admirably 
(o  observe  and  note  passing  events  in  a  territory  'of  such  vast  importance ;  and  the 
reader  may  turn  to  the  journal  of  Mr.  Colton  for  an  accurate  chronicle  of  events. 

"From  humor,  statistics,  description,  historical  narrative,  mining,  agricultural  ana 
political  information,  this  book  is  calculated  to  attract  every  class  of  readers."— 
Wasfntgiirn  Union. 


A.  S.  BARNES  <b  COMPANY  S  PUBLICATIONS. 
Colton's  Deck   and  Port. 

DECK    AND    PORT; 

OR, 

INCIDENTS  OP  A  CRUISE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  FRIGATE  CONGRESS 
TO    CALIFORNIA: 

With  Sketches  of  Rio  JANEIRO,  VALPARAISO,  LIMA,  HONOLULU,  and  SAN 
FRANCISCO.  By  Rev.  WALTER  COLTON,  U.  S.  N.,  late  Alcalde  of  Monterey. 
Illustrated  with  Engravings.  1  vol.  12mo. 


"We  are  indebted  to  the  publishers  for  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  we  have 
received  in  an  age.  Though  professedly  commenced  '  more  as  the  whim  of  the  hour, 
than  any  purpose  connected  with  the  public  press,'  the  polished  and  gifted  author  has 
infused  BO  much  of  spirit  and  sentiment  into  the  various  daily  'jottings,'  as  to  render 
the  volume  one  series  of  delightful  conversations.  The  sketches  of  the  different  cities 
visited  are  beautifully  executed,  and  printed  in  tints." — Phila.  Saturday  Courier. 

"There  are  elements  of  popularity  and  interest  enough  in  this  handsome  volume  to 
make  a  market  for  a  dozen.  California  is  a  magic  word  in  these  days ;  and  those  upon 
whom  it  does  not  operate  with  sufficient  power  lo  tear  them  away  from  home,  friends, 
and  health  at  home,  feel  its  influence  quite  enough  to  devour  every  thing  that  relates  to 
it.  This  work  is  by  far  the  most  methodical,  satisfactory,  and  graphic  description  of 
El  Dorado,  and  the  way  thither,  that  has  yet  appeared.  Mr.  Colton  will  be  remem 
bered  by  those  who  read  his  admirable  '  Ship  and  Shore'  as  a  most  lively,  humorous, 
and  sketchy  writer ;  and  his  best  qualities  are  brought  into  play  in  this  work.  The 
amount  of  valuable  information  on  which  his  pleasant  sketches  are  based,  is  very 
great.  The  value  of  the  book  is  also  greatly  increased  by  the  illustrations  it  contain* 
There  are  a  large  number  of  sketches  of  icenes  and  places,  drawn  by  Mr.  Colton, 
beautifully  engraved,  and  printed  in  colors,  which  lire  tine  works  of  art,  and  give  a 
vivid  idea  of  the  places  visited.  It  is  a  work  whose  literary  merit,  attractive  form, 
and  most  interesting  matter,  will  make  it  highly  popular." — JV.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"This  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  interesting  books  that  has  been  issued  from 
the  American  press  the  present  year.  We  have  never  read  u  book  that  pleased  us 
more.  Possessing  a  brilliant  imagination,  the  author  has  painted,  in  glowing  colors,  a 
thousand  pictures  of  the  sea,  night  and  storm,  sunshine  and  calm.  Every  page  is  full 
of  glowing  thoughts,  sublime  truths,  pure  morals,  and  beautiful  aphorisms.  It  is  a 
book  that  will  never  be  out  of  date — it  is  a  gem  that  will  become  brighter  every  day. 
We  predict  that  this  volume  will  run  through  several  editions." — Pittsburg  Morning 
Pott. 

"  This  work  is  published  in  a  beautiful  style,  and  is  full  of  highly  interesting  sce.wa 
and  incidents,  detailed  by  a  master  hand.  It  has  been  seldom  that  we  have  found  a 
work  more  instructive,  and  at  the  same  time  so  interesting  as  the  one  before  us.  To 
say  any  thing  in  praise  of  the  author,  would  be  useless.  His  fame  is  so  well  settled,  that 
our  opinion  could  neither  raise  it  higher  nor  detract  from  its  merits. 

"  Every  thing  related,  is  clothed  in  the  rich  garniture  which  U  afforded  by  a  well 
stored  and  well  cultivated  mind,  governed  by  high  moral  principle.  The  whole 
tenor  of  the  work,  while  it  aims  at  instructive  narration,  is  also  calculated  to  impress 
upon  the  mind  pure  and  elevated  ideas,  both  of  men  und  things. 

"We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  to  all  who  want  a  food,  useful,  and  interesting 
book,  that  they  cannot  do  better  than  to  secure  a  copy  of  this.  It  will  richly  repay  a 
perusal."— Matstilon  JWic*. 

"  His  |  en  has  the  wand-like  power  of  making  the  scenes  which  it  describes  live  and 
movo  before  the  mind  of  the  reader.  We  can  cheerfully  recommend  thin  a*  a  churn* 
ing  book,  full  ol'informalion  and  entertainment,"— Hartford  Uhrittiatt  Secretary. 


A.  S.  BARNES    <fe    COMPANY'S    PUBLICATIONS. 
Lady    Willoughby's    Diary. 

LADY    WILLOUGHBY; 

OR, 

PASSAGES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  WIFE  AND  MOTHER  IN  THE 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


"This  interesting  and  excellent  book  purports  to  be  a  diary  of  a  lady  of  royal  birtli 
two  hundred  years  ago.  From  its  being  written  in  a  style  so  simple,  with  so  much  01 
pure  devotional  and  domestic  feeling,  and  displaying  so  naturally  the  unaffected, 
womanly  thoughts  of  a  daughter,  wife,  and  mother — its  modern  authorship  has  beeu 
more  than  suspected.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  has  been  deemed  by  many  intelligent 
readers  to  have  emanated  from  Lady  Willoughby ;  or,  at  all  events,  to  have  been  the 
production  of  an  excellent  mind,  and  one  which  had  undergone  the  discipline  of  real 
experience.  The  original  book  was  long  hoarded  up  as  a  literary  curiosity ;  but  upon 
examination,  this  ancient  quarto,  with  w  ribbed  paper  and  antique  type,'  was  found  to 
possess  too  much  of  character,  feeling,  and  general  popular  interest,  to  be  shut  up  in 
the  cabinets  of  the  virtuosos.  It  soon  ran  through  the  first  edition,  and  the  present 
beautiful  American  reprint  is  from  the  second  London  issue." — Predonian. 


"  A  most  remarkable  work,  which  we  read,  some  time  ago,  in  the  original  Englisri 
shape,  with  great  delight.  Its  character  is  peculiar.  Lady  Willoughby  is  a  flctitiou,- 
character,  personating  an  English  lady  of  the  seventeenth  century,  who,  while  the 
civil  wars  were  raging,  lived  quietly  apart  from  the  scene  of  strife,  bringing  up  he; 
children,  and  manifesting  her  conjugal  as  well  as  maternal  affection  in  the  'Diary  ;' 
which,  had  it  emanated  from  the  pen  of  a  real  Lady  Willoughby  of  the  time,  couk! 
not  have  been  a  more  beautiful,  a  more  affecting,  or  a  more  instructive  record." — 
JVew>  York  Tribune. 


"The  original  edition  of  this  work,  published  in  London,  was  issued  in  quarto  form, 
dpon  ribbed  paper  and  antique  type,  and  at  once  attracted  very  genera)  attention  as  ;: 
rare  literary  curiosity.  In  the  present  edition,  reprinted  from  the  second  English 
edition,  the  style  of  execution  has  been  modernized,  retaining  only  the  capitals,  italic.-- 
and  the  old  spelling.  It  is  a  work  of  high  interest,  in  whatever  light  it  is  viewed ;  and 
as  a  picture  of  domestic  life  during  the  stormy  period  when  Cromwell  and  Fairfax  ami 
other  heroes  of  that  era  filled  so  large  a  space  before  the  public,  it  possesses  a  charm 
which  will  entertain  every  reader.  The  style  is  quaint  though  simple  and  attractive, 
and  the  book  is  a  perfect  gem  in  its  way."— Troy  Budget. 


"This  Diary  purports  to  have  been  written  in  the  stirring  times  of  Charles  the  Firs! 
and  Oliver  Cromwell,  but  the  allusions  to  public  events  are  merely  incidental  to  the 
portraiture  of  Lady  Willoughby's  domestic  life.  Her  picture  of  the  little  pains  and 
trials  which  are  mixed  up  with  the  joys  that  surround  the  fireside  is  perfect,  and  m- 
one  can  fail  to  derive  benefit  from  its  examination.  In  the  very  first  chapter  we  a.« •<; 
chaimed  with  her  simplicity,  her  piety,  and  true  womanly  feeling,  and  leam  to 
reverence  the  fictitious  diarist  as  a  model  for  the  wife  and  mother  of  the  nineteenth 
century." — Newark  Daily  Jtdvertiter. 


A.  8.  BARNES  A  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
Mansfield    on    American    Education. 

AMERICAN    EDUCATION: 

ITS  PRINCIPLES  AND  ELEMENTS. 

DEDICATED   TO   THE    TEACHERS    OF   THE    UNITED    STATES. 

BY  EDWARD  D.  MANSFIELD, 

Author  of  "Political  Grammar,"  etc. 

This  work  is  suggestive  of  principle?,  and  not  intended  to  point  out  a 
course  of  studies.  Its  aim  is  to  excite  attention  to  what  should  be  the 
elements  of  an  American  education ;  or,  in  other  words,  what  are  the 
ideas  connected  with  a  republican  and  Christian  education  in  this  period 
of  rapid  development 

"The  author  could  not  have  applied  his  pen  to  the  production  of  a  book  upon  a 
subject  of  more  importance  than  the  one  he  has  chosen.  We  have  had  occasion  to 
nolle, •  one  or  two  new  works  on  education  recently,  which  indicate  that  the  attention 
of  authors  is  being  directed  toward  that  subject  We  trust  that  those  who  occupy  the 
proud  position  of  teachers  of  American  youth  will  find  much  in  these  works,  which  are 
a  sort  of  interchange  of  opinion,  to  assist  them  in  the  discharge  of  their  responsible  duties. 

uThe  author  of  the  work  before  us  does  not  point  out  any  partk-ular  course  of  studies 
to  be  pursued,  but  confines  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  principles  which  should 
govern  teachers.  His  views  upon  the  elements  of  an  American  education,  and  its 
bearings  upon  our  institutions,  are  sound,  and  worthy  the  attention  of  those  to  whom 
they  are  particularly  addressed.  We  commend  the  work  to  teachers."— Rochester 
Daily  Advertiser.  _____ 

"We  have  examined  it  with  some  care,  and  are  delighted  with  it  It  discusses  the 
whole  subject  of  American  education,  and  presents  views  at  once  enlarged  and  compre 
hensive;  it,  in  fact,  covers  the  whole  ground.  It  is  high-toned  in  its  moral  an<l 
religious  bearing,  and  points  out  to  the  student  the  way  in  which  to  be  A  MAN.  It 
should  be  in  every  public  and  private  library  in  the  country." — Jackson  Patriot. 


"  It  is  an  elevated,  dignified  work  of  a  philosopher,  who  has  written  a  book  on  the 
subject  of  education,  which  is  an  acquisition  of  great  value  to  all  classes  of  our 
countrymen.  It  can  be  read  with  interest  and  profit,  by  the  old  and  young.  Un 
educated  and  unlearned.  We  h;iil  it  in  this  era  of  superficial  and  ephemeral  litera- 
turefus  the  precursor  of  a  better  future.  It  discusses  a  momentous  subject ;  brin'/in,' 
to  bear,  in  its  examination,  the  deep  and  labored  thought  of  a  comprehensive  min< I. 
We  hope  its  sentiments  may  be  diffused  as  freely  and  as  widely  throughout  our  land 
us  the  air  we  breathe." — Kalamazoo  On-.ttt,-. 

"  Important  and  comprehensive  as  is  the  title  of  this  work,  we  assure  our  readers  it 
is  no  misnomer.  A  wide  gap  in  the  bulwark  of  tais  age  and  this  country  is  irreatly 
lessened  by  this  excellent  book.  In  the  first  place,  the  \siews  of  the  author  on  educa,- 
tion,  irrespective  of  time  and  place,  are  of  the  highest  order,  contrasting  strongly  with 
the  groveling,  time-seeking  views  so  plausible  and  so  popular  at  the  present  day. 
A  leading  purpose  of  the  author  is,  as  he  says  in  the  preface, l  to  turn  the  thoughts  of 
those  engaged  in  the  direction  of  youth  to  the  fact,  that  it  is  the  entire  soul,  in  all  its 
faculties,  which  needs  education.' 

"The  views  of  the  author  are  eminently  philosophical,  and  he  does  not  protend  to 
enter  into  the  details  of  teaching;  but  his  is  a  practical  philosophy,  having  to  do  with 
living,  abiding  truths,  and  does  not  sneer  at  utility,  though  it  demand!  a  utility  that 
take.«  hold  of  the  spiritual  part  of  man,  and  reaches  into  his  immortality."— Holdcvt* 
Mafzzint. 


A.  S.  BARNES  &  COMPANY  S  PUBLICATIONS. 
Mansfield's  Life  of  General  Scott. 


MANSFIELD'S   LIFE   OF   GENERAL  SCOTT. 


THE  LIFE  OF  GENERAL  WINFIELD  SCOTT, 

BT   EDWARD   D.   MANSFIELD. 

This  work  gives  a  full  and  faithful  narrative  of  the  important  events 
with  which  the  name  and  services  of  General  Scott  have  been  con 
nected.  It  contains  numerous  and  ample  references  to  all  the  sources 
and  documents  from  which  the  facts  of  the  history  are  drawn.  Illus 
trated  with  Maps  and  Engravings.  12mo.  350  pages. 

From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

We  have  looked  through  it  sufficiently  to  say  with  confidence  tnat  it  is  well 
done — a  valuable  addition  to  the  best  of  American  biographies.  Mr.  Mansfield 
does  his  work  thoroughly,  yet  is  careful  not  to  overdo  it,  so  that  his  Life  is  some 
thing  better  than  the  fulsome  panegyrics  of  which  this  class  of  works  is  too  gen 
erally  composed.  General  Scott  has  been  connected  with  some  of  the  most 
stirring  events  in  our  national  history,  and  the  simple  recital  of  his  daring  deeds 
warms  the  blood  like  wine.  We  commend  this  well  printed  volume  to  general 
perusal. 

From  the  N.  Y.  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

This  volume  may,  both  from  its  design  and  its  execution,  be  classed  among 
what  the  French  appropriately  call  "  memoirs,  to  serve  the  cause  of  history," 
blending,  as  it  necessarily  does,  with  all  the  attraction  of  biographical  incidents, 
much  of  the  leading  events  of  the  time.  It  is  also  a  contribution  to  the  fund  of 
true  national  glory,  that  which  is  made  up  of  the  self-sacrificing,  meritorious,  and 
perilous  services,  in  whatever  career,  of  the  devoted  sons  of  the  nation. 

From  the  U.  S.  Gazette,  (Philadelphia.) 

A  beautiful  octavo  volume,  by  a  gentleman  of  Cincinnati,  contains  the  above 
welcome  history.  Among  the  many  biographies  of  the  eminent  officers  of  the 
army,  we  have  found  that  that  of  General  Scott  did  not  occupy  its  proper  place  ; 
but  in  the  "  authentic  and  unimpeachable  history"  of  his  eventful  life  now  pre 
sented,  that  want  is  satisfied. 

From  the  Cleveland  (Ohio)  Daily  Herald. 

We  ar«  always  rejoiced  to  see  a  new  book  about  America,  and  oar  country 
men,  by  an  American — especially  when  that  book  relates  to  our  history  as  a  n» 
tion,  or  unrolls  those  stirring  events  in  which  our  prominent  men,  both  dead  an_ 
liv  ng,  have  been  actors.  As  such  we  hail  with  peculiar  delight  and  pride  the 
work  now  before  us  ;  it  has  been  written  by  an  American  hand,  and  dictated  by 
an  A  merjcan  heart — a  heart  deeply  imbued  with  a  love  of  his  native  land,  its 
institutions,  and  distinguished  men. 


A.  s.  BARNES  &  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
Hittory  of  the  Mexican  War. 


THE    MEXICAN    WAR: 

A  History  of  its  Origin,  with  a  detailed  Account  of  the  Victories 
which  terminated  in  the  surrender  of  the  Capital,  with  the  Official 
Despatches  of  the  Generals.  By  EDWARD  D.  MANSFIELD,  Esq 
Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings. 

From  the  Philadelphia  North  American. 

Mr.  Mansfield  is  a  writer  of  superior  merit.  His  style  is  clear,  nervous,  and 
impressive,  and,  while  he  does  not  encumber  his  narrative  with  useless  ornament, 
hid  illustrations  are  singularly  apt  and  striking.  A  graduate  of  West  Point,  he  is 
of  course  familiar  with  military  operations ;  a  close  and  well-read  student,  he  has 
omitted  no  sources  of  information  necessary  to  the  purposes  of  his  work  ;  and  a 
shrewd  and  investigating  observer,  he  sees  in  events  not  alone  their  outward  as 
pects,  but  the  germs  which  they  contain  of  future  development.  Thus  qualified, 
it  need  hardly  be  said  that  his  history  of  the  war  with  Mexico  deserves  the  am 
plest  commendation. 

From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

A.  clear,  comprehensive,  and  manly  history  of  the  war,  is  needed ;  and  we  are 
flad  to  find  this  desideratum  supplied  by  Mr.  Mansfield's  work. 

From  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

This  is  really  a  history,  and  not  an  adventurer's  pamphlet  destined  to  live  for 
the  hour  and  then  be  forgotten.  It  is  a  volume  of  some  360  pages,  carefully  writ 
ten,  from  authorities  weighed  and  collated  by  an  experienced  writer,  educated 
at  West  Point,  and  therefore  imbued  with  a  just  spirit  and  sound  views,  illustra 
ted  by  plans  of  the  battles,  and  authenticated  by  the  chief  official  despatches. 

The  whole  campaign  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  that,  unequalled  in  brilliancy  in 
any  annals,  from  Vera  Cruz  to  the  city  of  Mexico,  are  unrolled  before  the  eye» 
of  the  reader,  and  he  follows  through  the  spirited  pages  of  the  narrative,  the  dar 
ing  bands  so  inferior— in  every  thing  but  indomitable  will  and  unwavering  self-re 
liance,  and  military  skill  and  arms — to  the  hosts  that  opposed  them,  but  opposed 
in  vain. 

We  commend  this  book  cordially  to  our  readers. 

From  the  Baptist  Register,  Utica. 

The  military  studies  of  the  talented  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle,  admi 
rably  qualified  him  to  give  a  truthful  history  of  the  stirring  events  connected  with 
the  unhappy  war  now  raging  with  a  sister  republic  ;  and  though  he  declares  in 
his  preface  that  he  felt  no  pleasure  in  tracing  the  causes,  or  in  contemplating  the 
progress  and  final  consequences  of  the  conflict,  yet  his  graphic  pages  give  proof 
of  his  ability  and  disposition  to  do  justice  to  the  important  portion  of  our  nation's 
history  he  has  recorded.  The  very  respectable  house  publishing  the  book,  have 
done  great  credit  to  the  author  and  his  work,  as  well  as  to  themselves,  in  th* 
kandsome  style  in  which  they  have  sent  it  forth. 

(**) 


A.  S.  BAKX 


ANV'S 


CHAMBERS'   EDITCATIOXAL   COTUSI-.  ] 

NATURAL    SCIENCES. 


-~rs.  Chambers  have  employed  the  first  professors  in  Scotland  in  tin-  prepa- 
nition  of  these  works.  They  arc;  now  offered  to  tin-  school*  of  tin-  United  S;.u<>. 
under  the  American  revision  of  1).  M.  UKKSK,  M.  I)..  LL.I)../,;/<r  SuperiiiUydrnt  «/ 
I'ublic.  Xchtmls  in  the  city  and  comity  of  Jv'cw  York. 

I.    CHAMBERS'    TREASURY    OF    KNOWLEDGE. 
I!.    CLARK'S    ELEMENTS    OF    DRAWING    &'  PERSPECTIVE. 

III.  CHAMBERS'    ELEMENTS    OF    NATURAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

IV.  REID    &,    BAINS'   CHEMISTRY    AND    ELECTRICITY. 

V.    HAMILTON'S  VEGETABLE    AND   ANIMAL  PHYSIOLOGY. 
VI.    CHAMBERS'    ELEMENTS    OF  "ZOOLOGY. 

vii.  PA^E;S  ELEMENTS  OF  GEOXOGY. 


pKglo      "  N  's  we"  known  that  the  original  publisher-  of  the- 

rs,  of  Edinburgh)  are  able  to  command  the  best  talent  in  the  preparation  of  their 

.>.  and  that   it  is  their  practicetode.il  faiihfullyAviih  the  public.     Thi 
ll  not  disappoint  the  reasonable  expectations  thus  exciUtf.     They  are  elementary 
&S|o  works  prepared  by  authors  in  every  way  capable  of  d«>ii-  M-ir  respective 

.  .  1  who  have  evidently  bestowed  upou  Ih  ::ne  and 

i>or  If)  adapt  them   to  their  purpose.     \V^  recommend  them  to^  teachers    and 
;ents  wilh  contidence.     If  not  introduced  as  <•:  :he  school,  they  may 

•ilent  advantage   in  Kener 

which  every  teacher  ought  to  provide  himself  with   an  ample  store  of 

.aerials.    The  volumes  may  be   had  separately  ;  and  the  one  first  named,  in  the 

'>>."-    hands  of  ;l  teacher  of  the  younger  ela-ses.  mi^ht  furni>h  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 

•iiisement  and  instruction.     Together,  they  would  constitute  a  rich  treasure  to  a 

•uily  of  intelligent  children,  and  impart  a  thirst  for  knowledge." — Vermont  CAggm. 

!l  the   nume!  •)  published,  there  are 

.•  have  acquired  a  mere  ihorou-jhly  deserved  and  high  reputation  than  this 

fliambersof  Edinburgh,  well  known  as  the  careful  and  intelligent  pub- 

uumber  of  works  of  much   importance  in  the  educational  world, 

;hers  of  this  series  of  books,  and    the  American  editor  has  exercised  an 

-ual  rlegre«;  of  judgment  in  their  preparation  for  the  use  of  schools  as  well  as 

;ies  in  this  country."—  Ph iladelphia  Builctm. 


"Tin-  titles  furnish  a  key  to  the  contents,  and  it  is  only  necessary  for  us  to  soy^ 

that  the  material  of  each  \olnme  is  admirably  worked  up.  pr.  M-minir  \s  ;U. 
mi  with  much  clearness  of  meth 

• 


m 


A.  S.  BARXES  ct  COMPANY'S  P 


NATURAL  AM)  EXPERIMENTAL  PHILOSOPHIC 

i<  ( )  It    SCHOOLS    A  X  I)     A  (.'  A  1)  K  M  I  E  S . 
BY    R,  G,  PARKER,   A,  M, 

.iuthiir  ttf^RnttuncnJ,  Keuavr  '    '*'  Exrrcitr.i   in    lln 
tr  '•  Out/in <;.*  <;/  History,"  etc.,  etc. 


I.    PARKER'S     JUVENILE     PHILOSOPHY. 

II.  PARKER'S    FIRST   LESSONS    IN    NATURAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

III.  PARKER'S    SCHOOL    COMPENDIUM     OF     PHILOSOPHY. 

The  use  of  School  Apparatus  for  illustrating  and  exemplifying  the  principle;- 
~  of  Natural  and  Experimental  Philosophy,  has,  within  the  last  few  \ears.  become  su 
-•  general  as  to  render  necessary  a  work  which  should  combine,  in  ihe  same  course  ol 
^  instruction,  the  theory,  with  a  full  description  of  the  apparatus  necessary  tor  illus- 
-  tration  and  experiment.  The  work  of  Professor  Parker,  it  is  contideiuly  believed. 
:  fully  meets  that  requirement.  It  is  also  very  full  in  the  genera!  facts  which  it  pre- 
,. SIM  its— clear  and  concise  in  its*  stylo— afUf  entirely  scientiiic  and  natural  in  its 
' 


work  is  heller  adapti-d    to   the    [.resent   state   of  jiat'ind  spicnw  than  any 
ilar  production  with  which  we  are  acquainted.*' — II  •///«''  '  ".   />'///»•. 

•  !:ool-!)ook  of  nu  mean  pretensions  and  no  ordinan  \alu 


t  v 


for  this  valuable  and  beautifully- 
ll  .'Itlrrrtiyer.       . 

lume  strikes  us  as  ha\in<r  very  inarkt*  merit. 


!  work  the  utmost  su 


'•  It  seems  to  me  to  have  hit  a  happy  medium  between  the  too  simple  and  the 
too  abstract." — K  A.  Smith,  Principal  of  J^'ir.c.iter  .•Icadcnuj,  .!///»•. 

"I  have  no  hesitation  in  savin;  that  Parker's  Natural  Philosophy  is  the  most 
valuable  elementary  work  1  have  seen." — Gilbert  J^iiiiydini  J/iunc,  Prof.Jfat.  Phil. 
j\T.  Y.  City. 

"1  am  happy  to  say  that  Parker's  Philosophy  will  be  introduced  and  adopted  in 
Victoria  College,'  at  the  commencement  of  the  next  collegiate  year  in  autumn; 
j  and  1  hope  that  will  be  but  the  commencement  of    the  use  of  so  valuable  an  ele 
mentary  work  in  our  schools  in  this  country.     The  small  work  of  Parker's  i  Parker'.-, 
First  Lessons)  was  introduced  the   last   term  in   a  primary  class  of  the  institution 
?|o  referred  to,  and  that  with  great  success.     I  intend  to  recommend  its  use  shortly  into 
^  the  model  school  in  this  city,  and  the  larger  work  to  th*e  students  of  the  provincial 
jj|c  Normal  School." — E.  Ryeraon,  Knperinteudgit  of  Public  Instruction  of  Cppcr  Canada. 

UI  have  examined  Parkers  First  Lessons  and  Compendium  of  Natural  and  Ex 
perimental  Philosophy,  and  am  much  pleased  with  them.  1  have  long  tell  dissatis 
faction  with  the  Text-Hooks  on  this  subject  most  in  use  in  this  section,  and  am 
huppynow  to  find  books  that  I  can  recommend.  I  shall  introduce  them  imme 
diately  into  my  school." — Hiram  Orcutt.  Principal  of  Thetford  Academy,  Pennant 

"•  I  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  it  the  best  icvrk  on  the  subject  now  published. 
.„  We  shall  use  it  here,  and  I  have  already  secured  its  adoption  in  some  of  the  highr 
yy  schools  and  academies  in  our  vicinity." — M.  I).  Li&gett,  Sup.  Warren  Public  Schuols. 


